


Master Plan

by Unfeathered



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005), Torchwood
Genre: BDSM, Blood and Torture, Explicit Language, F/M, M/M, Multi, The Valiant (Doctor Who), The Year That Never Was (Doctor Who)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-20
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-01-01 22:10:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 57,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21150527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unfeathered/pseuds/Unfeathered
Summary: During the Year That Never Was on theValiant, the Master plots and schemes and plays with his toys (variously Jack, the Doctor, and Lucy).





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> This series of fics was first posted [on Livejournal](https://unfeathered.livejournal.com/14893.html) way, way back in 2007 and 2008. In late 2017 I posted updated, amended versions of [Part 1](https://unfeatheredfics.dreamwidth.org/11325.html) and [Part 2](https://unfeatheredfics.dreamwidth.org/11625.html). And now, I'm posting all 12 parts (plus a couple of extra ficlets) to AO3, and they will be followed by the new, finally completed, never-before-seen Parts 13 and 14. [Sorry to anyone who's been waiting eleven years to read them!]
> 
> 1 February 2020: Now complete. If you've been waiting to start reading because it's a WIP - you may now start reading! :-)
> 
> 24 September 2020: I'm editing all my works on AO3 to reflect the actual dates when they were first posted, so that they appear in proper chronological order. That means this series is going way back to 2007, even though it wasn't posted on AO3 until 2019-20.
> 
> Original parts beta'd by [becky_h](https://becky-h.livejournal.com/), [jadesfire](https://jadesfire.livejournal.com/), [_medley_](https://users.livejournal.com/-medley-/) and [mad_jaks](https://mad-jaks.livejournal.com) (varied for each chapter). Final two chapters beta'd by [karios](/users/karios/). Amended Parts 1 and 2 (and a few other bits here and there) unbeta'd.
> 
> Note on dates: Probably, no-one will care but… This series, apart from Part 1 here, basically takes place between 'The Sound of Drums' and 'Last of the Time Lords'. When I originally wrote it, the best dating I could find for election day was Thursday 23 October 2008. Nowadays, the consensus seems to be May 2008, but I don't feel it's worth re-editing the whole series to try and fit in around that, so I'm sticking with the Year That Never Was going from October to October.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Master plots while he waits for the Doctor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](https://unfeathered.livejournal.com/14893.html) on 20 August 2007. Updated and amended version posted [here](https://unfeatheredfics.dreamwidth.org/11325.html) on 27 December 2017.
> 
> Original version beta'd by [becky_h](https://becky-h.livejournal.com/). Updated version unbeta'd.

The instant I leave Malcassairo, I know something's wrong. I was intending to just let the Doctor's TARDIS hang in the Vortex for a bit while I work out where to go, but instead I find it drawn immediately backwards in time, trillions of years back, all the way to 21st century Earth. All the way back, precisely, to 23 April 2007. Not quite sure what's going on, I try to go somewhere else – anywhere else! – and find myself heading back to Malcassairo in the year one hundred trillion.

The Doctor's locked the fucking co-ordinates! The wily old _bastard!_ I spend several fruitless days bouncing between the two times and places, trying to override the lock, but in the end I have to admit defeat. I'm not going anywhere. Anywhere else, that is.

Well, I'm not exactly a stranger to the idea of sitting and waiting for the Doctor. And scheming. Oh yes, there's going to be scheming! A whole ton of scheming. After all, I have to do _something_ to keep myself amused while I wait. And he'd be terribly disappointed in me if I didn't come up with something huge for him to wade into the middle of when he finally turns up!

So I get to work. I start insinuating my way into the politics of that little planet he's so fond of. So easy to manipulate, these unsuspecting humans. So easy to ingratiate oneself with! And yet so stubborn, so utterly determined to survive. I remember those bedraggled souls at the end of the universe, battling the laws of physics themselves to survive. It's a desire I can empathise with. Hmm… Maybe there might be something worth using there after all?

When I eventually follow them to Utopia, I find the butchered, mutilated remains of the human race, bitter and desperate. And I know I've found my army. 600 million soldiers almost as twisted and full of bitter hatred as I am. Now I just have to find a way to bring them back to a time when I can decently make use of them.

At first I work frantically, expecting the Doctor to arrive at any moment to louse up my plans. But as time goes by and there's still no sign of him, I start to relax. Clearly, I've landed earlier than he expected me to. I have time to make this _work_.

And while I'm working, there on Earth through the rest of 2007 and most of 2008, I take the opportunity to watch the Doctor in his various visits to his favourite planet, to get to know this latest regeneration. Outwardly he's a very silly regeneration, still with that penchant for continually talking without actually saying anything, which seems to be true of every regeneration he's ever had. And yet when he wants to he can still do dignity and leadership just as well as he always could. (He just hardly ever seems to want to – what a waste!) And mixed in with all of that, now, is a new side to him that's a pure remnant of the Time War. Beneath the silliness, he's full of fire and darkness, magnificent in his despair. Oh, how magnificent he is, fighting off both the Daleks and Cybermen at Canary Wharf! One of the wonders of the world when he's roused to it, my Doctor.

There are other, less spectacular sightings too. He's somehow involved in a kerfuffle with some Krillitanes at a secondary school, along with one of his former companions. He pops up in a focus group in London with the unlikely title of LINDA, and eventually arrives briefly in person. Further back in the archives I find mentions and the odd CCTV clip of what appears to be his previous regeneration – a ridiculously goofy character – at Downing Street when there was an incident with the Slitheen, and then again down in Cardiff, where there was an earthquake that ripped right across the city. An earthquake I really ought to look into further when I get a moment…

Meanwhile, one of my associates stumbles across a recording of him in an Easter Egg on an odd selection of DVDs, talking in riddles and being even more incomprehensible than usual. I never do find out what the other half of that conversation was supposed to be. And at Christmas he takes on the Empress of the Racnoss and defeats her all by himself – well, with a little help from yours truly. I've worked my way up to a position of authority by then and it gives me all sorts of warm, squishy feelings to be able to help my darling Doctor rid the Earth of yet another threat!

It's something of a surprise to discover that neither of his current pet humans is with him in most of that time. In all of those earlier sightings except the last, he's with the blonde human, Rose Tyler, though Jack's there with them at Cardiff – looking young and full of bluff and bluster, and absolutely adorable. And, oddly, apparently completely human. This, then, is a point in his timeline before he became the glorious abomination that he is now. I start to watch out for him as well as the Doctor, curious to try and find out more about him – and the Jones girl, too. After all, stuck here on Earth, I have the chance to do what the Doctor never seems to have bothered with. I look into his companions' lives. I watch them, study them, scrutinise them to find out what makes them tick.

I watch Martha Jones go to lectures, watch her parents fight and split apart, watch her sister fawn her way up the corporate ladder, watch her brother hide from the family problems with his girlfriend and kid, watch her father pick up the blonde from hell and use her to taunt his ex-wife… Watch Martha dash between them all, picking up the pieces, coaxing them into talking to one another, binding them together with a tenuous thread of love and care and hope that will disintegrate the moment she leaves them to themselves. I can't help wondering why she bothers.

And in Cardiff, I watch Captain Harkness and his team blunder their way into scrape after scrape. To be fair, the Captain himself seems to have some sense, but his _team_… They're so delightfully dysfunctional. I have a wonderful time setting traps for them – an alien artefact here, a ghost machine there, an extra spot of retcon somewhere else – and watching the mess they make of them, as well as everything else they encounter. For goodness sake, they even have to deal with one of their own coming back from the dead to drain the life force of her replacement so she can live! An utterly humiliating show for an organisation that purports to be the Doctor’s arch-nemesis.

The very idea of it is laughable. I really don’t have any competition there!

I study Captain Jack most of all. He fascinates me. Right from the start, as soon as I remember who I am, I know there’s something odd about him, something strange and not-meant-to-be, batting round the depths of my mind like a moth against a window. Professor Yana, the old dear, couldn't really comprehend what he was seeing when Jack died and resurrected right in front of him with those electric cables, and then somehow stayed alive in the room flooded with radiation. But when I find footage on the CCTV in Cardiff of Captain Jack getting shot in the head (by that same colleague who later causes so much trouble with the resurrection gauntlet - I _like_ her!), right there in the middle of the square, and come straight back to life, I finally understand.

Captain Jack Harkness cannot die. Or at least, when he dies, he always comes back to life. It’s an incredible, unthinkable anomaly. He’s a constant, a fixed point. Unimaginable – and existing. Right there in Cardiff. I spend a lot of the fourteen months that follow chafing to get to the part where I can take him and experiment on him. I mean, think of it – the possibilities! What this man could _do_, could _show_ us about the universe! What he could be used to do _to_ the universe.

Not to mention the fact that he’s a sweet, darling, beautiful specimen of a man. A born follower, a perfect lieutenant. That old fool Yana saw it, but couldn't make sense of it: he was surprised that such a personable, physically-powerful young man would be so content to play second to another, and to take orders so readily from someone as old and un-leaderlike as he was, with a cheerful “Yes sir!” _I_ see it for what it really is: Jack Harkness is naturally submissive, forced by circumstances into the role of leader of a team of inadequates, and yearning with all his heart (ha, single heart, because he’s still only human!) for the one man who has shown the strength, the ability, the _desire_, to master him.

He’s going to discover there’s more than one of us who can do that.


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Master visits his new toy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Originally posted [here](https://unfeathered.livejournal.com/14893.html) on 24 August 2007. Updated and amended version posted [here](https://unfeatheredfics.dreamwidth.org/11625.html) on 29 December 2017.
> 
> Original version beta'd by [becky_h](https://becky-h.livejournal.com/). Updated version unbeta'd.

I watch my dear little friends from the end of the universe settle in to killing their ancestors, then decide it's time to get back to the business in hand. The Doctor and Captain Jack Harkness.

I'm a bit miffed that the Jones girl has managed to escape, but I wasn't so interested in her anyway. It was fun tormenting her by going after her family, but I still have her family here so I can continue to torment her from a distance anyway.

And when I get bored with that, I can kill her. That'll be fun too.

But for now, I can concentrate on the heroic Doctor and his immortal Captain. I turn abruptly and lock eyes with Jack. Oh, he's lovely. He stands stiffly, almost at attention, a hint of apprehension in the tightness of his jaw, but his eyes are wholly defiant.

I click my fingers at two of my soldiers (I _love_ doing that! It's so old-time villain!) and jerk my head towards the Captain. They move briskly to either side of him and grip his arms. Jack braces himself, but doesn't fight.

“Take Captain Harkness to his room,” I order, and the soldiers march him away, but not so quickly that I don’t have time to see his reaction to that. Surprise turning to fear. Which is silly, because after all, what did he expect me to do with him? Kill him?

Well yes, of course, and with great pleasure. But after he comes back? I can’t spend my _whole_ time standing over him, ready to kill him again the moment he comes back to life.

Though I certainly plan to spend _some_ of my time doing that.

But when I can’t be with him, or have him with me, he’ll need a room, so I’ve had one prepared. It’s been ready for a couple of months, actually, because there was a tiny chance that the Doctor would use his brains and come back to the Earth a little _before_ he expected me to get here. To give himself a chance to prepare, to work out how to defeat my evil plans. Wouldn’t have done him any good, of course, because I was already here, but it would have been a sensible manoeuvre on his part.

But no, the Doctor’s stopped using his brain. Election Day he expected me, and Election Day he turned up. Well, actually, the day after, but who’s counting?

I give the Captain a while to let him take in his predicament and start wondering just what I’ve got in store for him. In the meantime, I make the Doctor comfortable – get the old geezer a wheelchair, a tent to sleep in, a doggy bowl to eat from – oh, yes, I’ve been making plans for him too. Then, when the Doc’s settled, I saunter down to Jack’s room, whistling happily because this is what I’ve been waiting for. Yes, I've got a few other things going on (world domination, universe domination, you know the sort of thing) but meeting Jack Harkness again one on one is the part I've been looking forward to the most. The drums start to crescendo as I reach the bowels of the ship, approaching the temporal and spatial anomaly I finally have a chance to master.

I peek through the little peephole in his door (I’m a traditionalist – I like peering through a peephole – it's so much more intimate than a camera and tv screen!) and find myself frowning. Something is not right here. Yes, Captain Jack's in there, looking a little more vulnerable now they've stripped him of his coat. But I anticipated finding him at the borders of despair. He’ll know he can’t expect being my prisoner to be much fun – he'll be expecting pain and suffering and death – and he’ll know that I can do to him what I would do to any other human twenty, fifty, ten thousand times over, because he’ll _always_ come back. The prospect of that ought to be enough to send almost anyone over the edge.

But he’s standing in the middle of the room, hands in pockets, looking preposterously unconcerned, and _patient_. As if he’s waiting for me.

Well. A bit of a fight for dominance might just make this even more fun. I open the door, put my own hands in my pockets and stroll in. I stop precisely three feet away from him. Because he’s taller than I am; any closer and I'd have to look _up_ at him.

"Captain," I acknowledge him politely.

He draws breath as if about to respond the same way, automatically, because manners are very well-ingrained in Captain Jack Harkness. And if my name had been anything but 'Master', he might have done it. But my name stops him short. Call me by my name, and he'll be acknowledging me as his Master, too.

So he just inclines his head, and waits.

I smile, and take a slow, deliberate look round at his quarters. The room's big, but bare. Padded floor, bars and anchor points on the walls, solid-looking cuffs hanging from the ceiling, a door (locked at the moment) leading to a well-appointed bathroom, a locked walk-in cupboard containing certain useful… equipment. Any larger equipment can be brought in as and when needed: I'm not leaving anything in here that the Captain could use to his advantage. There's no bed, because I don't want him _too_ comfortable. And no window, because we're right in the bowels of the ship here. When the lights go off, it's going to be _very_ dark in here.

"I assume the accommodation is to your satisfaction?" I ask mockingly.

"Well, let me see," he says, playing along. "It's warm enough, at least, and definitely more comfortable than chilly flagstones."

I smile. Yes, Captain. Far more reminiscent of those BDSM dungeons you enjoy playing in than a traditional prison cell, isn't it? I'm pleased that he seems to have made the connection. It'll make this all so much easier.

He shrugs. "I've known worse."

Oh, this is _fun!_ "I'm sure you have," I croon. "You've lived a very long time, haven't you, Captain?"

Jack's eyes narrow as he realises I've done my homework. That I've used the time I've been stuck on Earth to _investigate_ him. "I hear you've still got a fair few years on me," he says, very casual.

I grin. "Aw, has the Doctor been telling you stories?"

"A few, yeah." He brings his hands out of his pockets to shrug, still ostentatiously polite and friendly, making small talk. "Though, you know what he's like? Talks a lot, but doesn't actually _say_ very much."

"Oh, definitely." That's my Doctor. "So what did the dear Doctor tell you about me, Captain?"

Because I can't think where else he'd have got any information about me, and I'm intrigued to know how much the Doctor actually told the two friends he trusted to help him defeat me!

Jack crooks an eyebrow. "Yeah, like I'm going to tell you that!"

Oh yes. This _is_ fun! I lift both my eyebrows in return. "You think I can't make you?"

His expression turns mulish, but I'm fairly sure I can see his resolve beginning to falter, just a little. As if he's finally pausing to question the merit of really fighting me, right now.

After all, the first battle has been well and truly lost. Devastatingly lost, in fact, from his perspective. It's time to rest and regroup, isn't it? The adrenalin of battle will be fading and exhaustion starting to make itself known. He needs to decide where his loyalties lie – or at least where they need to lie for the time being. Keep on fighting, without any hope of victory? Or give in gracefully?

"What do you want from me?" he demands, finally, and there's a hint of despair in his voice that finally shows up a nice fat crack in his cool façade.

That makes me happy, so I smile. "What do you think I want from you, Captain?" I ask silkily.

"Honestly? I have no fucking idea."

He's lying, of course. He knows perfectly well what I want. The very fact that I've given him such a nice room, so much more like those he normally plays in than those he gets tortured in, is a smacking great clue. And, studying him, I don't think it's going to be all that hard to get him where I want him. His fatigue is well-hidden to the casual observer but I've been watching him for years and I can see it: in his roughened voice, his dull eyes, his drooping stance. It's not going to take much.

"Well," I say conversationally, "that's not going to get us very far. Come on, Captain! You're a hero; you've done this before! What would normally happen to you at this point in the proceedings, as the companion of the gallant hero who's already been defeated?"

He shrugs, and says, casually enough but with a raw edge that betrays his fear, "Chains. Torture. Maybe death."

"Exactly," I say softly. "That's what you're expecting, isn't it, Jack?"

He flinches when I say his name, but doesn't answer. He's not even looking at me now, the insolent bugger. 

"And oh _god_ it'd be so much fun! Breaking you down, Jack. Breaking you down into little tiny pieces until there's nothing left."

“Oh, come on," he scoffs, hands out of his pockets again, gesticulating. "I’ve been immortal for 140 years. Do you honestly think there’s anything you can do to me that I haven’t survived before?”

I smile nastily. “Ah, but that’s my point exactly, Captain. It isn’t about what you can survive, because you’ll survive anything. You don’t have a choice about that. It’s about what you can _take_. Because I may not be able to do anything _new_ to you, but I can do it so many, many more times. I’ve got all the time in the world.”

His hands clench into fists and open again.

"But it's not what I want, Jack."

He goes motionless. Still not looking at me, but he's certainly paying attention.

I pause a second to enjoy the moment, then say gently, "Let me put it to you thus, Captain. I could – and probably will, because you're bound to defy me at some point – make you suffer indescribably. But I'm offering you an alternative." And at last blue eyes lift to my face as interest flares. I take a breath, then hit him with it. "You bow to me, acknowledge me as your Master, and I'll take care of you, Jack. You don't have to be a hero any more. You can be the follower you prefer to be, rather than the leader you've been forced to be. I'll shield you from the knowledge of the devastation I'm going to wreak upon your planet, the billions of people I'm going to kill. I won't ask you to make any hard decisions. I won't ask that you look after anyone and put right their mistakes. I won't ask you to save anyone. I won't ask any more from you than that you submit to me. Because that would be _so_ much easier than trying to carry on playing the hero. Wouldn't it?"

I see a flicker of something – acknowledgement? Surprise that I understand him so well? – in his eyes. He's struggling with it, but I'm right. He's definitely considering it.

However, there seems to be something else obstructing Jack's free-fall into submission.

He swallows, and comes out with it. "Please. I gotta know. My team?"

Oh, _that's_ what's getting in the way. He's got _such_ a highly developed sense of responsibility, this boy. I shrug. And because he said 'please' (and wasn't that nice to hear, coming from his lips!), I tell him. "They're in the Himalayas investigating the Abominable Snowman."

That gets me a look of such utter disbelief that I can't stop myself chuckling.

"Captain, with Archangel I can make people believe almost anything! I don't know if they'll find old Yeti, but that's what they're up to."

"And what – " He licks dry lips. "What are you going to do with them?"

"Nothing," I say lightly, and his eyes narrow searchingly as he tries to determine if I'm telling the truth. I decide to clarify. "Assuming they all survived the decimation – " I smile, because my idea of using that term literally still tickles me – "then they're fine. And I shall leave them alone. I don't mean to force you into submitting by threatening your team, Jack. Neither do I want to trick you into it because you're tired and lonely and wanting comfort. I want you to surrender yourself to me of your own free will. It's so much sweeter if you're willing. If you're doing it because it's what you want to do."

"You said you'll torture me if I don't!"

"Oh no, Jack. That's not what I said at all. I said I _could_ torture you. I probably _will_ torture you sometime whether you choose to bow to me or not because, hey – I'm evil! It's just up to you whether you want to fight me while I do it, or simply accept it – and the lack of responsibility that comes with that acceptance."

Jack bites his lip. Almost there.

"You're tired, Captain," I said soothingly. "It's been a long life and you've done brilliantly, but you can let go now. You can give in and stop looking out for the rest of the world. You can rest. You've had the weight of the world on your shoulders for long enough. Let me take that weight. You don't want it. I do. Give it to me."

His eyes have dropped from mine but now they lift again, and I catch my breath at the exhaustion and despair there – and the faint ray of hope.

There's a moment's utter stillness. Then very slowly Captain Jack Harkness, Time Agent and con-man, head of Torchwood, temporal and spatial impossibility, universal constant, sinks to his knees before me and bows his head.


	3. Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Master finally gets to play with his new toy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](https://unfeathered.livejournal.com/19179.html) on 2 September 2007 and beta'd by [becky_h](https://becky-h.livejournal.com/).

The euphoria that surges through me when Jack kneels to me makes me want to grab him, strip him and fuck him right away, to assert my dominance in the most basic and primitive way imaginable. But this is too sweet to rush. I want time to savour my victory before I go any further, and I want to give Jack time for it all to sink in too.

So I just tuck my fingers under his chin (the first time I've touched him and oh, the heat of him!) and raise his face to mine. Whisper, reverently, "Thank you, Jack. Now get some rest. I'll see you later." And leave him alone.

Well, not exactly alone. As soon as the guards have locked and bolted the door for me, I'm there at the peephole, curious to know what Captain Jack will do.

He doesn't move immediately. He stays there on his knees, looking _adorable_, breathing fast and shallow, eyes unfocussed. A little stunned, and fighting with himself, as all heroes do when they give in. Fear and guilt battling desire and… arousal? Yes, I'm sure there's arousal. Oh, he's beautiful. Even without the massive high of mastering the universal constant and the Doctor's lieutenant, I'd want him.

At last, he moves. Eases himself off his knees and onto his arse, reaches down and unlaces his boots. Tugs them off, curls and uncurls his toes and massages his feet.

Yes, kneeling in boots like that isn't very comfortable, is it, Captain? Better get used to it, though. I'm going to want you kneeling a lot.

Jack shivers suddenly, and I'm struck by how haggard he looks. I suppose it has been a gruelling few days for him. Death by Abaddon, death by electrocution, radiation, laser screwdriver – and that's just the deaths I'm aware of. Who knows how many more there have been? Not to mention the fact that he doesn't seem to have slept, or even rested, for days. I don't think you can count lying dead in a morgue. It's surprising that he managed to hold out this long.

Jack shifts onto his knees again and crawls over to the corner, giving me a wonderful view of his delectable arse. Even in his exhaustion, he takes his boots with him and sets them neatly against the wall. He's been well-trained by someone. He settles with his back to the corner, knees tucked up to his chest and strong, bare forearms resting on them. He doesn't close his eyes, though. He just sits there, staring into space.

Not going to be much to watch for a while then. I prise myself away from the spy-hole and turn to the guard standing at attention nearby. "Tell me when he's had some sleep," I command, because I told Captain Harkness to get some rest and I'm not coming back till he's obeyed me.

Then I skip back up to the bridge to torment the Doctor for a while.

* * *

The Doctor looks wrong in that old body. I've never seen him look so old. Even his first body didn't get that frail and feeble, and it lived to be a lot older. He was still a sprightly old thing then. Now he's just old.

Only the dark eyes boring into me are familiar.

"What have you done with him?" he demands, voice low and hoarse with age.

I grin. "What, Captain Jack? Put him in a room, had a chat with him and left him to sleep." I lean forward and pat his cheek. "Don't worry, Gramps. I'll look after your Captain for you."

He glares up at me, gripping the arms of his wheelchair with fingers that are gnarled and frail. "What exactly does that mean?"

I tap my nose secretively. "Ah, that's _my_ secret, Doctor. I have plans for Handsome Jack." Unsurprisingly, the Doctor just looks even more worried at that. I smirk. It's bliss, knowing I've stolen his favourite plaything, before he got a chance to play with it again himself. "You'll know. All in good time, Doctor. All in good time."

* * *

It's hours before the guard contacts me with the news that Jack has finally given in and let himself sleep. And then hours more before I consider he's had enough rest to get him through what I plan to do to him. So it's not until late in the evening – an evening which I've spent with the delightful Lucy, before sending her off to bed – that I return to the Captain's quarters.

Jack looks unbelievably young, curled up in the corner with his arms wrapped around his body, long dark lashes lying spread against his pale cheeks. It seems almost a shame to wake him.

Well, it would if I wasn't _evil_!

I stroll in, wondering how close I can get to him before he wakes. He's a warrior, after all, used to sleeping with one eye open and one hand on his gun. If, in fact, he ever _really_ sleeps … Ah. Five steps into the room, and he moves even as he wakes, rolling to his feet and reaching for his gun.

Which isn't there, of course.

I leer at him as he gradually remembers and relaxes deliberately. He looks cute with his hair tousled like that. "Sleep well, Captain?"

"Actually, yes." He puts up a hand to smooth down his hair, as if sensing my thoughts. "Could have slept a lot longer, too."

"Of course you could, Captain. You really needed some rest. But I didn't want to let you recover _too_ much, in case you then decided to renege on our agreement."

He gives a bitter, self-mocking laugh. "Don't worry. You're quite safe there."

Really? That's very interesting. I really have got him where I want him, then.

"So," Jack says, ambling forward, hands in pockets again. "How do you want to play this?"

We face off again in the centre of the room. Except he's nearer this time: too near, as I discover when I look into his eyes and realise I'm looking up – even though I'm wearing shoes and he's not. I purse my lips, swallow, and say coolly, "Well, for a start, you can get down on your knees, Captain."

He obeys without question, and without surprise, which means he knows why and I shouldn't have to tell him again. Kneeling to me also raises his pulse and brings a tiny flush to his cheeks – and not from fear.

He doesn't duck his head this time, but looks up at me, unafraid and open and almost _trusting_. Makes me feel all parental. In a non-incestuous kind of way.

"So, what do you think happens next?" I ask him, because I'm curious, both about what he expects and what he _wants_.

"Well. From the way you seem to be playing this like a bad BDSM novel, I expect you're going to fuck me," he says dryly, making it sound just about as unappealing as he can. But there's a pulse beating fast in his throat and his eyes are bright and expectant.

I let my lips twist into something that might be a smile or might be a grimace, because he's pushing it here, entertaining as he is. "Why do you think that?"

Jack gives me his best 'come hither' look (which, on him, is bloody enticing) and says teasingly, "Because I'm hot?"

I can't help chuckling at that. Oh yes, Jack, you certainly are. "And?"

He goes serious and shrugs. "It's the classic way to assert your supremacy over someone. And you strike me as a classicist."

"Oh, yes." I step forward so that he has to tip his head right back to see me. He swallows once, deliberately slow. "And would you enjoy that, Jack?"

For the first time, a cloud passes over his eyes. This, then, is something he didn't really want me to know. And he tries not to tell me, by simply not answering. But he's still looking at me, aroused and on edge, and the answer's obvious. I give him a little amused smile, to show him I know, and he looks down briefly. "God help me," he says, his voice suddenly husky.

I laugh in delight, because this is just… this is so much better than I anticipated. I trace my fingers along his cheekbone and his handsome jaw, and it clenches, briefly, then loosens again. "Your God won't help you here, Jack."

He gives a short bark of laughter. "It's just a phrase," he says. "I don't believe in much any more."

_Except the Doctor_.

Neither of us say it.

Well. "Then I suggest you believe in me, Captain. I _am_ your God now."

Mmm. That sounds good. I smile.

"So get up and strip, Captain, and let's get this show on the road."

Jack strips efficiently and without a fuss, as I would have predicted. I stand and watch, enjoying the beauty of the flesh revealed as each layer comes off as much as the sense of power I get from having a universal constant obey me so well.

When he's naked, he stands still while I walk round him and look him over. Not touching, just examining. He tenses when I go behind him, the instinctive reaction of prey to being vulnerable and exposed, to not being able to see the threat. But he doesn't move, and when I return to stand in front of him, he meets my eyes with only a hint of discomfort. Mostly, there's just challenge, daring me not to like what I see.

As if.

I meet his eyes and lick my lips slowly. "Very nice, Jack," I drawl. Then I delicately wrinkle my nose. "But you _smell_. When was the last time you washed?"

"Um – " He's a little taken aback. "I don't know." A wry grimace. "Yeah. Bit pungent, I guess."

"Easily remedied," I tell him. "The bathroom's in there." I call in the guard and tell him to take Captain Harkness into his bathroom so he can shower and make himself ready for me. "And make sure he cleans _everything_ thoroughly," I add, and see an adorable little quiver run through Jack as he digests the meaning of this. "I'm a fastidious man, Captain. I expect you to keep yourself in better condition than this."

Resentment flares briefly in Jack's eyes before he clamps it down and drawls, deadpan, "Sorry. I've been a bit busy being _dead_."

"I know." I turn away from his questioning eyebrow and address his guard. "When he's finished, handcuff him. I think he'd look good in chains."

Jack's pulse goes up another notch, and I change my mind. "No, on second thoughts, leave that till I get back. I want to watch them going on."

And another notch. I chuckle, and turn to the door. "Tell me when he's ready," I command, without looking at either of them, and leave the room. I find another guard outside and order him to send the Captain's clothes away to be laundered, because I’m not going to keep him naked. If I keep him naked, I won’t be able to see him strip for me. Or have him stripped. Or strip him myself, with my teeth, or my fingers – or with a knife, shredding his clothing and making sure to shred his skin too…

So much to do, so… _much_ time to do it in. Ahhh. I like being in charge.

I go up on deck and stare out at the stars while I'm waiting. It isn't long before I get the call and I return to the Captain's cell, excitement stirring within me. This, at last, is what I've been waiting for.

Jack's kneeling ready in the middle of the floor and the sight almost chokes me with longing because he's just _so fucking perfect_. The guard wouldn't have thought to make him kneel, which means it was Jack's own decision, because he knew it would please me. For a moment, though, I think the guard has disobeyed me and chained him already, because his hands are out of sight behind his back. Then I realise that that this, too, was Jack's own decision. He's just holding them there. Because it will please me.

I also realise, because there's nothing he can do to hide it in that position, that he's half-hard.

Oh yes. I am a very lucky man.

"Beautiful, Captain," I purr, going close enough to sniff him and smelling nothing now except soap. "I expect you to _keep_ yourself clean like this for me."

He quirks an eyebrow at me. "Gonna be a bit difficult if I'm locked out of the bathroom."

"Oh, you'll be given time in there to clean and prepare yourself for me before I see you," I assure him, and get another little shiver like before. Something in the idea of being owned so completely arouses the hell out of Jack Harkness. It does a fair bit for me, too.

But I do need to quell this attitude of his. It's engaging, and I'm enjoying it no end, but I require a _little_ more respect from someone in his position. I reach down a hand to stroke down the back of his head, loving the way he moves his head to almost _nuzzle_ his cheek against my hand – and end with an unexpected tug on the hair at the base of his skull, pulling his head back sharply. His lips part in a silent cry and I lean over him, face close to his, using my very best threatening expression.

"And just so we get this straight right from the start, Captain, when I give you an order, I expect a certain kind of response. I don't mind the snarky comments; I'm enjoying bantering with you; but when, for instance, I tell you to keep yourself clean for me, your response should be…?"

There's a flicker behind his eyes as he gets it. "Yes sir!" he says immediately.

My hand clenches in his hair, because that's the _wrong_ answer, and Jack yelps and looks up at me with confused, puppy-dog eyes. It takes me a second to realise that he's not being deliberately obtuse; it's just that he's a military man and 'sir' comes automatically to him. I relax my fingers and stroke his stinging scalp soothingly, and smile encouragingly down at him.

"Oh, come on, Jack," I say persuasively. "You can do better than that. Don't think I haven't noticed there's one word you haven't said yet. Use my _name_."

He struggles with it. It's weird. My name came so easily to the Doctor's lips. But then, the Doctor's had a lot more practice at saying it. It's all so very new to Jack.

But he says it. And isn't that the sweetest thing I've yet to hear coming from his lips?

"Yes, Master."

He says it slowly, rolling his tongue round the words as if tasting them for the first time.

I caress his hair in reward because I’m actually a little overwhelmed by a universal constant calling me 'Master' and can’t think of anything to say.

That doesn’t last long, though. I snap into cheery mode and grin at him. “Right then, Captain; now we’ve got that sorted, let’s get on. I assume you’re sufficiently prepared?”

He wastes no time in saying it this time. “Yes, Master,” he replies, with a tiny, amused smile. “All plugged and ready.”

Fuck. Isn’t he just _perfect_? I didn’t even specify how he was to prepare himself (because telling Jack Harkness how to prepare himself for sex would be just a tad redundant) but he’s gone the whole hog to make everything as smooth as he can for me. I wonder if he let himself enjoy it too and make a mental note to have a video feed installed in his bathroom so that next time I can watch.

I smile at him, bright and menacing. “Very good, Captain. On your feet and over to the bars.”

Jack stands gracefully and moves without question over to the bars on the wall opposite the bathroom and cupboard – like wall-bars in a school gym. I follow and stand beside him; move him back from the wall a few feet with a palm on his bare stomach, bend him over with a light pressure on his shoulder. My skin tingles from the contact with his hot, vividly-alive skin. “Find a bar at the right height to hold onto and spread your legs,” I instruct, pleased with his compliance, and he positions himself to my directions, long legs spread wide and torso bent forwards at an angle that’ll be hard for him to sustain, even holding onto the bar. (Well, I don’t want to make this too easy for him; that would defeat the object! What's more, I’ve a suspicion that he doesn’t actually want me to.) I stand back and take in the view. His head is down, dark hair hanging across his face. “Head up and arse up, Captain,” I command, and watch the resulting arch of his back with immense pleasure. The position shows off the muscles of his shoulders and his legs beautifully.

I fold my arms. "I don't think I will have you chained this time, actually," I remark, and get a sudden, attentive stillness as he remembers I was going to chain him. "Let's save the chains for when we really _need_ them to keep you still, eh?"

I walk round behind him and tap the neat little bit of black plastic obscuring his anus. Jack shudders, muscles rippling, and I smile nastily and remove the butt plug in one swift, merciless tug. He shouts in shock, and I realise it wasn't the small plug I'd left for him, or even the medium one, but the large one. Oh, isn't he just perfect?

However. "The small one will do next time, Captain," I tell him sardonically, dropping the messy thing on the floor for the guards to clear up later. "I don't want you too loose."

Jack laughs breathlessly. "Don't worry. After all these years, I can do anything you want with these muscles." His buttocks flex as he clenches his arse to demonstrate and relaxes again. "You want tight: you can have tight."

"Thank you very much, Jack," I say coolly, stifling a laugh. "And I definitely want tight." Because I'm not exactly the biggest guy ever down there – never have been, in any of the bodies I've inhabited. "I want you to feel it. The whole point of this is for you to feel it, Jack."

"Oh, I'll feel it," he says, a trifle hollowly, and I chuckle, pat his rump, and cross to the cupboard for the necessaries.

He maintains position well while I'm busy, and I'm a bit disappointed that I can't find _anything_ to tell him off for. Though there is _one_ thing not quite right… "Feet a bit further apart, Captain," I order, slapping the insides of his thighs to reinforce the message, and he catches his breath and shifts his legs. When he's at just the right height for me, I tell him to stop, and watch with pleasure his leg muscles working to find a new stability. "Perfect, Captain," I hum, and line myself up. "All right, Captain, here we go. Close your eyes and think of the Doctor."

* * *

Afterwards, I head back up to the bridge. The door swishes open and I lean rakishly against the jamb, jacket slung over my shoulder, smug grin on my face. The Doctor hasn't gone to bed yet – well, I say 'bed', but all the old dear's got is a piddly little tent with a hard floor and a thin blanket – and he's probably as glad as I am right now that Time Lords don't need much sleep.

"You'll never _guess_ what _I've_ just been doing!" I gloat, bouncing over to him. He looks back at me disparagingly, dark eyes taking in my jacket, my un-tucked shirt, the way my hair's sticking up in imitation of his own (when he still had some, that is)…

"Fucking Jack, by the looks of it," he says coolly – far too coolly. I peer at him, vaguely disappointed. He ought to care more than that.

"Well, _yeah_!" I agree, with jazz hands. "And, oh, Doctor. It was incredible! _He's_ incredible! So pretty, so compliant, so eager to please." That gets me a tiny wince, at last. "And on top of that – _Ohhh_!" I suddenly get it. "You didn't get to spend any 'intimate' time with Captain Jack this time round, did you? So you don't…

"He's got the Vortex inside of him, Doctor. He's hot and human and – oh my, so _tight_ \- _and_ he's got the Vortex inside him. I could feel it, Doctor, swirling round and round in his body. It's there. It's like fucking Time itself!"

He's still not reacting much. I bend over him, weight on the arms of his chair so he has to move his own hands or let me crush them, frail as they are. "And the _drums_, Doctor! He's got the drums in him too. I wasn't sure at first, just a faint surge of rhythm when I touched him – but I only touched him lightly. But when I was inside him, immersed in him, the drums – they swelled, so loud – it was almost deafening. Vortex and drums, in him, in a mere human, making him immortal… Your Captain Jack is one special man, you do know that, don't you?"

For the first time he looks annoyed. "You did look after him, didn't you?"

"Well, of course I did! He enjoyed it nearly as much as I did, Doctor." And isn't that a marvellous thing to be able to say to the man who's had both of us in the past and knows we'll both be making comparisons? I sit back against the table and sneer at him.

"And afterwards?" He grunts at my blank look and says, with exasperation, "Did you look after him? Did you check him over, clean him up, make sure he was warm enough? Did you even – did you even give him anything to eat? To drink?"

As if _I_ think about such things! "Have I given _you_ anything?" I ask pointedly.

"No, unless you count a doggy bowl, and I don’t! But I'm not a human. And you haven't just spent the last hour fucking me to death!"

Ah, that brings back some memories… But I put on my very best hurt expression. "I didn't fuck him to _death_. He's still very much alive. And I know about humans. I've looked after Lucy, haven't I?"

"I'm not sure 'looked after' is the most accurate phrase you could use," he says dryly.

He’s starting to annoy me too. I remember why I’ve never stuck around him for too long before. “Oh, whatever.” I do air quotes. “Am I bovvered?”

The Doctor looks at me in complete non-comprehension and I force out a laugh. “Sorry, Doc. I keep forgetting you haven’t been _stuck on Earth_ for the last eighteen months.”

His expression changes. “Yes, that _was_ a mistake on my part. I should have set the controls to get us back here earlier. Caught up with you before you got so powerful."

"Would have been a sensible move, wouldn't it?"

The Doctor rolls his eyes and retorts, "I didn’t have a lot time to think, with the Futurekind about to eat us all! Thanks for that, by the way.”

“My pleasure,” I smirk, and lean in again. “Come on, Doctor – don’t you miss the way we used to play?"

"There are some things I certainly don't miss," he says, with an arch expression that just looks _wrong_ on a hundred-plus geezer in a wheelchair. Still, I take it the way it's intended and grin a little wider. And find myself wishing – again – that I'd managed to find a way of keeping the Doctor docile without making him so unattractive.

I'll have to keep working on that one.

There's a minute or so where we're both staring at each other, a little wild, remembering – good times, bad times – it doesn't matter because they were times we _shared_. Then the Doctor's eyes drop from mine, and I remember I'm supposed to be taunting him.

Somehow, my hearts aren't in it any more.

I sigh, and straighten. "Well, I'll leave you to get some sleep. You need your rest at your age, Grandpa."

He glares at me. That's better.

"Nighty-night!" I grin, with a little wave, and leave for my room and the exquisite Lucy.

* * *

I do send someone to let the Captain shower if he wants to, and get him some food and clothes. I don't think about why. 


	4. Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Master deals with the first rebellion on his ship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](https://unfeathered.livejournal.com/19179.html) on 12 September 2007 and beta'd by [jadesfire](https://jadesfire.livejournal.com)

It takes a month for someone to defy me, and it's not Jack, it's the Doctor.

It's a month in which I've had annoyingly little time to play with either of my new toys. There's so much to do to get my new regime set up and the morons who are supposed to be helping me with it are, well, morons. And there are the inevitable teething problems with the Paradox Machine which, frustratingly, only I can fix.

Well, there is one other person who could help with that, but I don't expect miracles.

I arrive on the bridge one afternoon freshly showered and dressed, because I've just spent five hours tangled amongst the inner workings of the Doctor's TARDIS and it got me so revoltingly sweaty and dirty that I had to clean up. The Doctor watches me approach from his wheelchair with his usual impassive gaze and something inside me flips.

"You could _help_, you know, instead of just sitting there looking so superior!" I say viciously, storming over to him, itching to hit him but settling for getting in his face. "It wouldn't kill you to take a look, to try and find what I'm missing – it's _your_ TARDIS!"

My fury seems to pass straight through the Doctor without touching him. He says calmly, with only sadness in his voice, "She's not mine any longer, not with what you've done to her. You've defiled her. This isn't what they're supposed to be used for."

"It's not what _you_ used it for, you mean!" I say hotly, pushing away from him again. "Always flitting round space and time, looking for little problems that needed fixing so you could step in and play the hero. Never thought about the _big_ problems that needed fixing, did you, Doctor? Like, say, reinstating Gallifrey?"

That gets me a reaction, at last. "That's not fair," he says in a low voice. "You don't know… You weren't there. I _had_ to destroy Gallifrey. I had to. As for reinstating it – what you're doing now – that's just wrong. It's not what the others would have wanted."

"Oh, come on, Doc, it's only you who's got this ridiculous obsession with this planet. The others would thank me for this – honour me, even! What are mere humans compared to a Time Lord?"

"They're people," he says steadily. "It doesn't matter what race they are, what planet they're from. They're people and they deserve the chance to live."

"More than your own people? _Our_ own people?" It makes me feel sick to hear him say this. I turn to walk away, but don't get far before I have to swing back to try to make him _see_. "I'm doing this for us. I can't bring back the Time Lords, but I can build a new empire in their honour. It's the least I can do." I give him a twisted smile. "Kind of poetic, actually. Two Time Lords left. You destroyed them; I'm going to give them new life."

"It's not poetic at all," the Doctor says darkly. "It's grotesque. It's just about the worst thing you could do. And there's no way I'm helping you do it. Ever."

Well, that's not the sort of challenge you can leave unanswered. And I've had just about enough for one day.

"Oh, you're going to regret those words, Doctor," I sneer. Before he can blink, I'm behind him and steering him out of there and straight down to Captain Jack.

* * *

About halfway there, he realises where we're going. "Oh no, no, no, no," he says, and the warning tone in his voice might be scary if he wasn't a feeble old man, squirming round in his wheelchair just to try and _see_ me, let alone stop me. "Master, don't do this."

I halt the chair with a jerk; spin it round fast so he's facing me and stop it with my foot. Place my foot on the footplate between his, rest an elbow on my knee, lean in to him, and say, tightly, "Say 'please'."

"Please." He wastes no time in saying it, and it gives me a pleasant tingly feeling in my stomach. "Please, Master."

Sounds just as wonderful coming from his mouth as it does from Jack's.

Doesn't change my mind, though.

He's gazing up at me, finally, with those pleading, impassioned eyes he's so good at. Interesting that I've finally hit on the one thing that gets some passion from him.

"Too late," I tell him brusquely, and spin him back round and off we go.

* * *

Jack hasn't died for over a month. Must be some kind of record for him lately.

He's jolly well going to die now, though.

As we walk briskly through the dark, narrow corridors of the underbelly of the _Valiant_, I try to decide _how_ he's going to die. A blast from the laser screwdriver seems too easy, somehow, though it looks like it hurts. Have to ask Jack how much it does. Which reminds me – I'd forgotten I have the ideal candidate here to tell me how much different deaths hurt, to _compare_. It's not something you can ask normally, but Jack comes back. Oh yes. Might have to get some sort of flipchart. 

I'll leave comparative deaths till he's done something deserving of punishment, though. If I'm going to hurt him anyway, I might as well get the added benefit of better behaviour afterwards.

For now, though… How shall I kill him? Knife in the guts? Tempting, but too messy – I don't have the time or inclination to shower and change _again_. Suffocation? Oh yeah, but that's something I'd like to try when I'm fucking him and I don't have time for that right now. Same goes for strangulation. Immolation? I'm _dying_ (get it?) to try that one, but it might be overkill (oh, yes, I'm on form today!) for this. Starvation is one I _really_ want to try too, but that would take far too long for this particular lesson.

Hmm. I'm veering back towards laser screwdriver. It's such a versatile tool. I could shock him a bit with it first, make him hurt, and _then_ kill him. Or – I know! Set it to a really narrow beam and drill little holes in him. That ought to hurt, and won't be as messy as a knife, because the beam should create and cauterise wounds at the same time.

We're there. I look through the spy-hole to check on Jack and he's sitting in his usual corner, head on hand, half-asleep. Perfect. It'll be a nice shock when I – No. Not me. That's what the soldiers are for.

I call over the guard from the end of the corridor to join the one outside Jack's door and instruct them to get the Captain up, remove his shirts and chain him up in the centre of the room. They charge in and the moment the door closes behind them I'm back at the peephole to watch.

Jack starts to his feet at the invasion of his room and resists, yelling "Hey!", when they grab him, one on each side, and start to drag him towards the middle of the room. I frown. This is the first time he's resisted since the very beginning and I'm not sure why. He might be coming out of his submissive phase. Or he might just be startled by the guards approaching him, because that's not what normally happens. They usually only enter his cell to bring him food or let him use the bathroom. Or let him get ready for me, of course. They don't normally touch him – they don't have to. So this is different. I'm fairly sure that's all it is.

The Doctor's shouting and begging behind me, but I ignore him in favour of watching the guards strip the Captain to the waist. I'm never going to get tired of watching that. He struggles some more and his shirt tears – it's one of those he left in his room in the TARDIS after his first trip with the Doctor and it's old and a bit tight now anyway; he's filled out a little in a hundred and forty years.

They haul him into place and let down the manacles attached to a single point in the ceiling above him. One holds him – with some difficulty – while the other gets his wrists into the cuffs. Once he's secured, he calms a little (too late to protest now) and one of the guards opens the door. I grab the Doctor's chair and wheel him in.

"What the hell am I supposed to have done?" Jack demands, the moment he sees me. Then he sees the Doctor, and goes still. Working it out. It's not what _he's_ done. It's what the Doctor's done. Or, rather, what he refuses to do.

A long look passes between them and I groan. "Oh, you two are _such_ a pair! You don't even need to say it, do you? It's all there in your eyes!"

I imitate the Doctor's quavery old voice and sad eyes, going a bit over the top for effect. _"Jack, I'm so sorry. It's all my fault. He's only hurting you because he knows I care about you!"_

Then I switch to Jack's deep, strong, fearless voice, with big posturing to match. _"That's all right, Doctor. I understand. And I'm a big brave hero: nothing he can do can break me! I'm more worried about you!"_

They both turn and glare at me. I snigger, shove the Doctor to the side and stroll forward to enjoy the view.

I was right. Jack does look good in chains. His arms are pulled uncomfortably above him, pushing his head forwards and stretching his upper body nicely. The tight metal cuffs are cutting into the flesh of his hands, forcing him up onto his toes so his wrists don't have to take his whole weight.

"Well, Captain," I gloat, my lip curling, "if there's nothing you can't handle, let's see how you take … _this_!"

I aim my laser screwdriver at Jack's torso and, to the accompaniment of the Doctor's anguished _"Noooo!"_, I fire.

Jack screams shrilly as the ray burns through him, just below his ribs.

I laugh in glee. I can see right through him. I go forwards and push my finger curiously into the hole. It fits perfectly. A colossal tremor runs through Jack, shuddering around my finger, and he sucks in his breath and holds himself very still while I wiggle my finger around inside him. When I pull it out, it’s only lightly smeared with blood. Good. I was right about this not being too messy, then. I clean my finger carefully on my handkerchief and turn to see how the Doctor’s taking it.

He’s appallingly pale. "Please, Master," he says, turning those big wide dark eyes on me again. "Stop. Please. I'll help you. Just – stop."

"No," I say harshly, spinning and firing again, lower. Jack screams again. It's a beautiful sound. I put a hole through each of his shoulders and then another through his right lung. Then I give him a moment of relief to get his attention. When I have it, along with the Doctor's, I say icily, "Let this be your first object lesson, gentlemen. You don't play my game, either of you, and this is what happens. The Captain gets it. _Is that understood?_"

The Doctor says it first, voice hoarse with emotions he's trying to control. "Yes, Master."

I breathe deeply, letting that submission sink into my memory for future gratification, then turn to Jack. "Captain?"

For a moment, I'm not sure he can actually speak. He's hanging there, staring downwards, sweating and squirming, breath ragged and short. Then he grits his teeth and looks up at me from beneath the hair that's flopped over his forehead, and for the first time I see hatred in his eyes. It makes my skin prickle. "Yes, Master," he grinds out.

"Wonderful!" I say brightly. "I'm so glad we've got that clear."

And I aim the screwdriver again and put a shot straight through Jack's heart.

The Doctor cries out and leans forward in his chair, knuckles white against the armrests, as the Captain gurgles for a moment and then sags in his chains. "You didn't have to do that!" he says. "You've got what you wanted – I said I'll help you – threatening him was enough."

"Oh, Doctor," I say with mock tenderness, "you always think everything's about you. This wasn't just for your benefit. He needed to learn the lesson too."

The Doctor brushes that aside roughly. "Of course it's about me. It's always about me. And I won't have you hurting Jack to get at me. You want to hurt me, hurt _me_!"

"Been there, done that. Besides, there's only so many times I can kill you – and I'm surprisingly fond of this regeneration of yours. Whereas your Captain is the first – the only – man I can kill over, and over and over again, and know he'll always come back. So much _fun_ I can have with him. So much to try!"

And this is interesting. I haven't seen the Doctor quite so cut up about someone else in a very long time. "Let him down," he says, from between clenched teeth.

I raise one lazy eyebrow. "I really don't think you're in a position to be giving orders, Doctor."

A little surprisingly, he subsides. Slumps back in his wheelchair as if he's used up all his energy, and just stares at Jack. I follow his gaze, and wonder how long it'll be before the Captain's back with us. And whether I want him waking up right where he died or collapsed on the floor.

Actually, floor might be fun. I like looming over people.

"All right, then," I decide. "Let's let him down. Let him wake up on the floor at my feet."

"Thank you," whispers the Doctor.

"I'm not doing it for you, Doc," I say, nodding at the guards, who reach up to release the manacles. Jack falls to the floor, boneless and lifeless, and we all gaze down at him. Watch the six little holes gradually close up and heal, and the colour come back into his face.

A minute later, there's a loud gasp and he rushes back into life.

The Doctor heaves himself out of his chair and onto his knees, moving with surprising agility. "Jack? Are you all right?"

His Captain just lies there for a long moment, blinking up at the Doctor as if trying to remember who he is. I suppose this is the first time he's resurrected to find a geriatric leaning over him. Then he remembers, and his face shutters down.

I push the Doctor away. He's getting in the way of my looming.

A tiny line forms between Jack's brows as he watches the Doctor fall sideways. Then he looks up at me, warily.

I smile coldly. "Welcome back, Captain. Remember the lesson?" Just in case he was too far gone to get it, before he died.

He swallows. "Yes, Master," he whispers.

"Good! Right then, up with you. Guard, go and get him another shirt."

One guard hurries off, while the other approaches to assist Jack to his feet. He staggers a bit, but makes it. Meanwhile, the Doctor slowly pushes himself up too. He stares at Jack, frowning. "Jack, is he treating you all right? Is there anything you want?"

Jack's back to normal. He grins, one of those room-brightening grins, and merely shrugs. "It's not so bad here. A blanket would be nice. And a pillow, maybe."

The Doctor looks at the guard. "Get them."

"Hey, just wait a minute – who's in charge here?" I yell, and the Doctor just fixes me with one of his cool, dark, stares.

"Get them," he says again.

Oh for goodness' sake… "All right, all right!" I hold up my hands in defeat. "He can have his damn blankie!" The Doctor just keeps staring. "OK, _and_ a pillow. But only a thin one." It's a tiny victory, but I'm willing to take all I can get at this point. I'm not having the Doctor boss me around. This is _my_ ship, and _I'm_ the Master.

The first guard returns with Jack's shirt and he puts it on. The second one returns a minute later with a blanket (thick, but hairy, I'm pleased to see) and a soggy-looking pillow. Jack grins at the Doctor again and the Doctor gives him an apologetic half-smile in exchange – and I decide that's enough time together for these two.

"All right, Gramps," I say, taking his arm and propelling him backwards towards his chair. "Visiting time's over. Say goodbye."

He doesn't. Just gives Jack another of those vomit-inducing deep looks. Jack sketches a salute, a warm twinkle in his eyes, and I shake my head and push the Doctor out of there.

* * *

"Needs more power," the Doctor mutters, upper body out of sight inside one of the panels of what used to be his TARDIS.

I give him a boggle-eyed look which he can't see. "_More_ power! Doctor, it's a _TARDIS_! How much more power can you need?"

"She wasn't designed for this," he says gruffly.

"That's why I _re-designed_ her! She can do it. She _is_ doing it. She's just overheating and expelling weird gases and making strange noises – But you're going to make it work, aren't you?"

Hell. I think I might have sounded a little too desperate there.

The Doctor just grunts, and lights dim and flash as he switches some plugs over.

I decide to try a different tack. "OK, so if we need more power, where are you refuelling the TARDIS these days? Or should I say, where _were_ you?" Just to remind him it's not _his_ TARDIS any more.

"Cardiff. There's a Rift there, giving off radiation and letting things through from other parts of time and space." A pause while he tinkers with something. "The Gelth were trying to get through."

"The Gelth? They're - ?"

"Yes." His voice sounds indescribably weary. "They're – well, not gone, but bodiless and trapped. All because of the Time War."

More of the universe I used to know, destroyed by this man. Isn't it just so ironic that he, who prides himself on doing so much good, has destroyed far more than I ever have?

I give myself a little shake. Time to reminisce later. Paradox Machine to maintain now. "So we go to Cardiff. Get ourselves a little extra power. Maybe pop in on Jack's little mates while we're there."

What? I said I'd leave them alone? Like Jack actually expects me to _keep_ my promise.

Suddenly the whole TARDIS goes dark, the hum slowing and stopping, and I leap over to the Doctor in panic. It mustn't stop, not even for a moment. Just as I reach him, however, it hums back into action again, the warm red glow returning. I stand over the Doctor and yell, "Shit, what did you do?"

At last, he withdraws from the console – slowly and carefully because of his aged body. He looks up at me with an unfathomable expression and says, "I don't think it's that sort of fuel she needs. She needs something to supplement the normal power of the Vortex. I don't know. I'm going to have to work on this. Just give me some time."

* * *

Later, when we're done for the day and I've cleaned up yet again, I visit Jack. I fuck him on hands and knees this time, just to make a point. He’s even more obedient than usual, perfectly submissive in preparation, position, posture, everything.

But the fire has gone out of him. He’s not enjoying it. Up till now, there’s always been some enjoyment – usually warring with guilt at enjoying something he really shouldn’t if he was actually the good little hero he pretends to be – but still enjoyment. Even when I was just fucking his mouth instead of his arse, he showed enjoyment at being dominated.

But now he’s passive, obedient – truly submissive. And it’s not what I want. Not any more. True, the total submission of a being with such power is truly flattering, but I like Jack participating. Because he’s _good_ at that. And he’s normally _so_ responsive.

He’s not going to get away with anything less than full participation.

I sneakily alter the angle of my thrusts, and Jack’s head goes up in surprise, because I’ve never bothered to pleasure him deliberately before. A low groan escapes his lips and a moment later he shifts his hips back towards me, almost imperceptibly, as if his body’s moving without his mind’s consent. Oh, yes. Fight it all you want, Captain; I'm going to make you enjoy this. You don't get to make that choice. I do.

A few minutes more and he’s actively pushing back against me at every thrust. Not a lot, but noticeably moving. Time for the next step. I slide a hand beneath him. Yes, he’s hard. Has been since I ordered him onto his hands and knees, actually, so it’s not his body I’m having trouble convincing to enjoy itself, just his mind. I wrap my hand around his cock, using the natural advantage of my current body’s long, agile fingers to jolt him into gasping out his shocked pleasure.

I lean forward over his smooth, unblemished back (strange to think it was riddled with holes just a few hours earlier) and whisper, “I’m not stopping till you come, Captain. You're going to enjoy this, whether you want to or not. I'm not stopping till you do."

For a moment, Jack hangs his head and breathes deeply through his nose. "_You bastard_," he whispers, low and fierce. Then something in him seems to give, and he starts to push against me in earnest, letting me pleasure him inside and out, and I laugh in delight because I've _won_.

Once he's given in, it doesn't take him long to climax. Which is just as well, because I'm not sure how much longer I could hold off myself, what with his capitulation and the way the drums are so much _louder_ inside him this time, so soon after his return from death. I come harder than ever, and collapse on top of him, panting, until his arms are trembling with the strain of supporting my weight on top of his own. He doesn't let them fail, though. Such an obedient boy. He stays there even after I've pulled out of him and gone to the bathroom to clean up.

I come back and walk round in front of him. Stare down at him for a moment while he continues his struggle to maintain position. I'm not sure how long he could hold it. I'm tempted just to stand there and wait and see. But there's still so much to be done. I'll indulge myself another day, a day when I have time to sit comfortably with a nice, long drink, put Jack in a muscle-straining position and enjoy watching him work to sustain it and, eventually, fail.

But for now… "Kneel to me, Captain."

He moves slowly, limbs stiff from strain. Once he's there, I walk up to him and stroke one gentle hand over the top of his head and down his hair to his neck. He shivers, and obediently tips his head back so I can see his face. He looks… Tired? Fed-up? Vulnerable? Gorgeous?

"Understand this, Captain," I say evenly. "I am the Master. And more than that, I am _your_ Master. I tell you to enjoy yourself: you enjoy yourself."

One dark eyebrow quirks upwards because after all I didn't actually _tell_ him to enjoy himself, not at first.

I let him see in my face just how much he's not going to get away with that, and he has the sense to lower his eyes for a moment to acknowledge it. "Oh, come on, Captain, I didn't actually need to say it, did I? You knew it was what I wanted, what I like so much about you – the fact that what I do to you arouses you. And you've always given me that, until tonight."

He doesn't answer, just looks up at me again with his jaw set and his eyes mutinous, and I finally get what this is all about.

"Oh Jack, Jack, Jack. Don't tell me you're still sulking because I killed you? You knew I'd do that sooner or later. In fact, don't you think you've been rather lucky to have stayed alive a whole month?"

At last he speaks. "It's not that you killed me," he says, and his tone concedes that he knows he's been lucky. "It's _why_ you killed me."

Oh, this just gets better and better! "Well, Captain, I think it was about time you learned your place in all this," I say spitefully. "This isn't all about you. You just happen to be here – though conveniently and enjoyably here – in the middle of a battle between two Time Lords."

And then I see in his face that actually he is acutely aware of his place – and has been all along. He's been playing me as much as I've been playing him. I feel like the bottom's dropped out of my stomach. I swallow, and curl my lip, wondering how to handle this. "I see." I think I'm going to have to go away and work this out. But in the meantime… "So you do know what's going on. That's good. So you've had your fun, trying to protect your Doctor from me by distracting me with a pretence of submission. But from now on I want the real thing, Captain. I shan't expect any more sulks. Full participation, Captain, every time. Understand?"

To my surprise, I see in his eyes not the hatred of earlier but something more like defeat. "Yes, Master," he says softly.

I ruffle the hair on top of his head and he winces. I grin, and walk past him to the door. "Go and get cleaned up, Captain."

Next time I see him, things are going to be very different.


	5. Part 4a - Playing Hard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Master ruminates about Jack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A drabble originally posted [here](https://unfeathered.livejournal.com/22558.html) on 11 October 2007 as a response to a request for a 'What Happened Next' meme. Unbeta'd.

Having realised Jack's been playing me all this time, that he had the audacity to think he could get away with it, I get a lot harder on him. I don't waste time killing him, not until I find a way to make him agree to collaborate with me on my comparative deaths study, but when I'm fucking him – arse or mouth – I'm rougher, push him further, demanding complete and utter submission. And I force him to enjoy it. Because part of him – the primitive, needy part – always responds to being dominated. He always fights it. And I always win.


	6. Part 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Master has a message for Martha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](https://unfeathered.livejournal.com/26418.html) on 23 September 2007 and beta'd by [becky_h](https://becky_h.livejournal.com) and [jadesfire](https://jadesfire.livejournal.com)
> 
> Please note: this chapter is very dark. Contains non-con and Jack-death (again).

I’m getting reports of the Jones girl from the little spherical beings I named the Toclafane (my little joke with the Doctor – still makes me smile). They are my spies on the human race, hunting out troublemakers and any intelligence they may have for me. And some of those troublemakers have tales to tell about Martha Jones.

She's not in England but Europe. I don’t know what she’s up to, which bothers me just a little. And with her adapted TARDIS key to protect her, no-one but me will spot her in the flesh, and I don’t have time to go trawling round Europe looking for her myself.

I need to send her a message, warn her off doing anything stupid. I wonder about getting her family out of their cell and tormenting them, so that next time I have somewhere to send a message to Miss Jones, I can show her what I’m doing to her kith and kin, remind her that I have them, remind her what I can do to them if she causes me any trouble.

But to be honest, I have no desire to torture them. They're such measly little specimens of the human race that torturing them would be like pulling the legs off spiders – so far beneath me it's not even fun. So I'm just going to leave them rotting in their cell, for the fun of it, and forget about them for the moment.

I have someone else _much_ more suited to torture, after all.

And she seemed to care about Handsome Jack, even though she hadn't known him very long. So I'll just use the Captain to keep both Martha _and_ the Doctor in line. Two birds with one stone. Not that the Doctor would like being referred to as a bird.

Mind you, he's not objecting much to anything I call him these days. He's almost docile enough to make me think seriously about de-aging him. I'm getting sick of having to look at that wrinkled old face. I want him young and pretty again.

And I think he's been physically old long enough to get a taste of how I feel, knowing I spent all that time as feeble, elderly Professor Yana when I could have been strong and vital and _me_. How _disgusting_ it tasted in my mouth when I woke up to my true self, knowing I'd been reduced to _that_. For _years_. Urgh! Standing there in that decrepit old body, facing a Doctor who looked more youthful than he had since he actually _was_ that age (well, excepting that rather attractive blond body he had about five regenerations ago)… It was demeaning. Unbearable. If dear, drippy, Chantho hadn't already shot me, I'd have been strongly tempted to shoot myself, just so I could regenerate into a body capable of actually combating the Doctor.

And if my idea of aging him to somewhere far beyond Yana's years wasn't strictly _revenge_ (because it wasn't _him_ who ran away to the end of the universe – no, wait – he did that too!), at least I know now that he understands how I felt.

I snap out of my reverie as my four closest silver friends materialize around me. "Yes?" I ask urgently, sitting up straight in my chair at the head of the table. "You've found her?"

"Yes, Master, we have found Martha Jones," says the one that sounds like a female child.

"Really?" I can't quite believe that. I didn't think the Toclafane would be able to spot her, even looking directly for her as they are. "You've seen her?"

"No, Master." There's regret at disappointing me in her voice, but no fear. They don't fear me, these beings. They don't need to. They're on my side. Her tone perks up a bit. "But we have found humans who testify to having seen her, who swear she will be in a place where there is television tonight."

"She will be there from 20:30 hours tonight," her male companion confirms. "And for the rest of the night."

"Oh, prime-time telly. Couldn't be better!" I look round at them, beaming. "Put the word out, my friends. Let it be known that there will be a broadcast from the Master to – where is she?"

"Hungary, Master. What is left of it."

Hmm. Bit near the shipyards of Siberia for comfort. Might have to warn her away from there. "Any idea what she's _doing_ there?"

"No, Master," says the female. "But she is making many new friends. She seems to be planning something."

I feel helpless not knowing what she's up to. It's probably nothing important, but… "All right, a broadcast to Hungary. Nine o'clock tonight. Martha Jones is to be watching."

"Yes, Master!" they chorus, and disappear. I sit back, leaning my chin on my hand, and start to plan exactly how I'm going to keep Miss Jones in check.

I wonder what she's _doing_ in Hungary? Just hiding from the Toclafane, or something more sinister?

I honestly can't imagine what kind of trouble she thinks she could cause me.

* * *

At eight forty-five that evening, I tell the guards to go and get Jack.

Yes, I know I could have recorded my message earlier, but I _like_ doing live broadcasts. There's something so much more… _intimate_ about speaking to people while they're actually listening.

I glance to my right to make sure the Doctor's all ready in position. He's very passive today. He's done his shift in the TARDIS – fixing a few of the fuses that had burnt out, making some changes to make things run more smoothly – and since then he's been sitting quietly in his wheelchair. He's so quiet these days it's getting almost boring having him around. Even this afternoon he just watched me playing with what I've been getting ready for Jack, without even trying to talk me out of it.

Another reason to make him young again, I think. Get some of that effervescent vitality flowing through him. Make him _fun_ again.

Lucy’s hovering as usual, looking absolutely stunning in a new red dress. She should wear red always. I might have to get her a whole wardrobe of red dresses. I blow her a kiss while I'm waiting and she smiles and simpers and blows me one back from her perfect red lips.

Then I sit up straight as the door slides open to reveal two soldiers with the Captain between them, blinking at the brightness of the bridge after the dim light of his room and the lower corridors. He acknowledges the Doctor with one brief glance, the ready-positioned camera with another, then turns his head to focus on his Lord and Master.

Me, that is.

His arms are cuffed ready behind his back – much as I love to see the chains go on, I'm not letting Captain Jack walk free round my ship, even with a couple of guards! – and I'm impressed to see the soldiers have, unusually, remembered my instructions and divested him of his over-shirt. Good boys. He looks delicious in just his T-shirt: so young and vulnerable.

It also means his neck's lovely and bare for what I plan to put round it.

I don’t want to collar him. But I do love leashes, and the idea of leashing the universal constant has a particular appeal all its own. And a _chain_ round his neck will give me the leash without the need for a collar.

They march him over to me – I've moved my chair back from the table to make room for him – then step back again out of the way. I look up at Jack without expression, just raise my eyebrows slightly.

He kneels.

Oh, Jack. You are just too perfect, d'you know that?

I can't help glancing over at the Doctor, grin widening on my face as I observe how very much he doesn't like his lieutenant kneeling to me, especially without even being ordered to. Oh, Doctor. If you only knew what else he'll do for me without being ordered to.

Oh, right. That's what I'm about to show you, isn't it?

"I thought we might try something a bit different this evening, Captain," I say smoothly, waiting till he's looking up at me before revealing the thick, chunky chain I've got sitting at the side of my seat. I heft its weight between my hands and he looks at it with eyes that have gone huge and dark, and swallows hard.

Doesn't beg, though. And not just because he's knows it would be useless.

I smile, and lean forward. I loop the chain over his head and fasten the end onto itself, loose enough that it doesn’t look like a collar, tight enough that it won’t slip off over his head. Then I sit back to admire my handiwork.

Jack looks amazing. The big, heavy links of chain rest round the base of his long, pale neck. The weight of it is keeping his shoulders nicely down, and his innate sense of pride is keeping his chin up so there’s a beautiful long stretch of throat above the chain. The sight of it makes me want to just reel him in and fuck that exquisite throat.

Mind you, I’m the Master here, so why deny myself?

"Come 'ere, Captain," I say, pulling on the chain so he has to kneel up and then shuffle forward between my legs. I get him in as close as I need to before dropping one hand from the chain to my flies. The Doctor makes a small sound of protest, and Jack flicks him one brief, expressionless, glance, while I just ignore him in favour of opening my trousers. And then I move the hand holding the chain down beside my hip, pulling Jack inescapably down onto my cock.

And oh! The heat of his mouth! I ought to be used to it by now, but I'm not. Every time it's like plunging into a furnace (well, if furnaces were wet), which combined with the drums and the Vortex swirling through him and around me makes it an experience I don't know if I'll _ever_ get used to. Not to mention the fact that he is of course extremely good at this. Lips, tongue, suction, positioning… I've never known anybody better.

Certainly not my Doctor. Enthusiasm, yes – in abundance. But skill? Not so much.

I let Jack work for a few minutes, because it's just heavenly. But I think I need just a little more of a demonstration to show Miss Jones than a mere blow-job. Something less ambiguously like punishment, something I'm doing _to_ the Captain rather than getting _from_ him, and something it won't be quite so obvious that he's enjoying.

Easy choice there, then.

I enjoy one last thrust down Jack's more-than-capable throat, then slacken the chain holding him down. "Enough of that, Captain, wonderful as it is!" I say cheerfully, and he lifts off my cock with what appears to be reluctance. His lips are wet with spit and I gently wipe them dry with my thumb.

And then hit him with what he's _actually_ here for. "I have a message to send to Miss Jones, and I don't think this particular activity is going to get it across."

Blue eyes slam open and I smile as he takes this in. Yes, that's right, Captain. You're my hostage against just about everyone. How does that feel? Bit of a demotion from 'hero', isn't it?

"I trust you're all ready and prepared for me, Captain?" I ask. Not because I need to – he's never defied me in that yet – but because I want the Doctor to hear the answer.

Jack nods, and says quietly, "Yes, Master." But there's a trace of discomfort behind it this time. He's not happy about being used as a messenger. Which is all to the good, because I don't exactly want him grinning his head off and begging to come while I'm trying to convince Martha that I'm torturing him.

I can't stop the smile spreading over my face, not that I want to. "Good boy. Up."

He stands very gracefully for someone with his hands cuffed behind him. Had lots of practice at that, haven't you, Jack?

I release the end of the chain so it swings down and thumps against his chest, then jerk my head at the table. "Bend over the table, Captain."

The flash of revulsion (or is it revolt?) on his face as he realises exactly what I'm going to make him do in front of both the Doctor and Martha (not to mention the rest of his world) just about makes my day. His jaw clenches. But he turns to the table and bends over it like such a good little boy, even laying his cheek down on the smooth surface. Only the fists his cuffed hands have formed hint at how much it costs him to obey.

The table is just the right height for this activity. And no, that isn't a coincidence.

Despite the plans I had at the start to enjoy stripping Jack, I haven't indulged myself in this way yet, because of the efficiency of the system I have running whereby he's always ready for me when I get to his room. So I take my time about unhooking his braces and then reaching round him to undo his belt and flies. I can hardly help touching something else while I'm there, the way it's pushing insistently towards my hands, and I give it a quick stroke, marvelling at the way this man reacts to me, his torturer, his enemy. I don't think there's ever been a time he wasn't at least half-hard when I've been with him.

Reluctantly, because I want to be in him by the time the broadcast starts, I withdraw my hands and set to work pulling down his trousers and underwear. I lick my lips as that scrumptious arse is revealed.

Like the well-trained little slut that he is, he moves his hands up his back out of my way and spreads his legs. Fortunately, his trousers are baggy enough to let him. I prepare myself quickly (Harold Saxon used to be a boy scout – I came prepared!) then extract Jack’s plug and toss it to the nearest soldier to deal with. Sorry, Sergeant, not exactly in your job description when you signed up, was it? Ah well, times change.

Moments later, I’m deep inside both the tight, hot channel and the swirling, beguiling mass that are Captain Jack Harkness.

I check the time. Ninety seconds to go. And one more thing to do: make sure Jack doesn’t get a chance to look like he’s enjoying this too much.

I reach down to the end of the chain trailing down the table beside his upper body and gently pull it so the chain slides round his neck until the fastening is at the back. Jack raises his head, waiting, wondering. I unfasten the catch and adjust it so that it closes not _through_ a link of the chain but _around_ it.

There’s another small sound from the Doctor. He’s doing his best not to show me how much this worries him, but he never has been much good at concealing his emotions, not when it's something that really matters to him – and not from _me_.

I leer round at him. "Oh, come on, Doctor. What are you worried about? That I'll _kill_ him?"

There's hatred in the eyes that look back at me, and it's not for what I'm doing to Jack, it's what I'm doing to _him_.

Jack’s still waiting, unmoving and attentive – he must know what I’ve done, but he’s waiting for proof – and I decide to take pity on him and show him just what his Doctor’s objecting to. I tighten the chain.

I _feel_ the surge of fear roar through him. It’s euphoric. The drums pound wildly. Up on the gallery behind me, Lucy gasps.

Almost time. I use my screwdriver to adjust the zoom on the camera at the foot of the table, making sure that it’s tight on my face for the moment. There’ll be time later to show Miss Jones just what I’m doing whilst threatening her.

Time.

I put on my most sugary Harold Saxon smile and say jovially, savouring the words, “Martha Jones. Are you there, Miss Jones? Are you listening? I do so hope you are. Because I have a message for you.”

Jack stirs, just a little, beneath me, and I quell him with a sharp thrust of my hips that makes him gasp.

I smile into the camera, still syrupy-sweet. “I don’t know what you think you’re up to, Miss Jones; what the hell you’re doing in _Hungary_!” I tilt my head to the side and let the smile fade a little. “I do hope you haven’t got it into your head that you can actually _do_ something. Something to disrupt my rule, foil my plans, _defeat_ me.” I quirk an eyebrow, condescending now. “Because honestly, Miss Jones? Not going to happen.

“And shall I tell you why?” I chuckle. “Well, couple of reasons there… One: do you really think there’s anything you can do that will stop _me_? Seriously? _Anything?_”

“As for the second reason, well…” I activate the camera to zoom out, so that Martha will get a lovely head-on view of Jack handcuffed, bent over the table, chain round his neck and my cock up his arse. “Well, this is the second reason. I catch you doing one tiny little thing I don’t like, Martha Jones, and this is what will happen.” I thrust into Jack a few times, hard enough to make him flinch, just to make it absolutely clear what I’m doing. Then I spread the hand that’s not holding onto Jack’s chain and do my best ‘reasonable’ face at the camera. “I know what you’re saying. It’s not very nice to punish you for something you haven’t even done yet – or at least, that I haven't any proof you've done yet. So let’s just call this a demonstration. A demonstration of the sort of thing that will happen to your friend – ” I punctuate the word with a sharp tug on the chain, dragging Jack’s head back – “if I ever do find any evidence that you’ve been plotting against me. Remember what you're condemning him to if I get that evidence.”

I glance at the monitor to check that Jack’s not grinning or mouthing messages or anything, and am momentarily distracted by the sight of myself fucking this beautiful man. He’s not grinning. He’s panting, mouth wide and eyes dark. Above him, I look magnificent and powerful; in absolute control. As I should. I pull harder on the chain and Jack rears up, chest off the table, groaning breathlessly.

Fuck, that’s a beautiful sound.

There’s an only slightly less beautiful sound from the Doctor: actual words this time. “Master – please – I beseech you – "

"Button it, Doc, or I'll gag you," I say tersely, without looking at him. It's an empty threat, and he knows it, because I've always preferred to hear just how much I'm affecting him to shutting off those lovely sounds behind a gag. But because we're in public, it needs to be said. Have to keep up appearances.

Back to Martha. I sneer at the camera, not at all reasonable now. “So now you know. I hope that’s coming across loud and clear, Miss Jones. Lay low and keep your head down. Or Captain Handsome here gets a repeat performance of _this_.” And I start fucking him in earnest, wrenching his head back with the chain and entranced by the way the big links are digging into the soft flesh under his chin, throttling him. He’s not making any sound now beyond a few wheezy gasps. His face is a rictus of agony, contorted with the effort of trying to breathe. Every muscle in his body is taut, fear and contained power eddying in his veins. I feel his body begin to shudder uncontrollably and it takes me a moment to realise that he’s coming, even as he's dying.  
That discovery, combined with his spasms around me, wrenches my orgasm out of me and for a long moment I’m lost in triumph and bliss, heat and drums, unaware of anything beyond the dying body below and around me.

I just hope Martha is actually watching, because this is some show I'm putting on for her.

I raise my face to the camera again, and say, breathless and victorious, “Message received, I hope, Miss Jones,” and end the show.

Then I withdraw quickly, because I have no wish to fuck a dead body. I hold onto the chain long enough to hear Jack’s final breath rattle out of him then let him crumple onto the table, loosen the chain, drop it onto his back and clean myself up. I drop the results in the bin, and get my trousers done up, then turn exultantly to the Doctor.

He looks like he’s going to be sick.

I grin. “Didn’t enjoy that, then, Doctor? Your Captain Jack did.”

He’s speechless with helpless rage and abhorrence. “You… you…”

I grin more widely, a grin the Cheshire Cat would be proud of. “I what, Doctor? Fucked him? Killed him? Made him come so hard it shook the very foundations of space/time? Oh, but he was fantastic, wasn’t he? Wasn’t he lovely?” I peer into his face, seeking a response, any response. “Wasn’t he?”

The Doctor looks back at me, and I find myself recoiling at the depth of sadness in his eyes. I manage to turn my recoil into a transfer of weight allowing me to spring forwards again, to crouch before him, clutching the struts of his arm rests. “Oh, Doctor,” I say tenderly. “You just don’t understand, do you? You can't see it. He was willing. Your Captain, your beautiful, wonderful Captain, he bowed down to me of his own free will."

I gaze up into his face and he stares back down at me, breathing a little fast. I say softly, warmly, "You still don't realise, Doctor, what this man will do for you. Such loyalty he has. Everything he's ever done since he met you has been for you."

The slight arch of a hairy old eyebrow makes me grin – and elucidate. "You abandoned him, Doctor, and he willingly stranded himself in the Nineteenth Century to find you. You ignored him, and he spent a hundred and forty years waiting for you, trying to find you. He found you, and you tried to run from him again, and he followed you through the _Vortex_, for fuck's sake! He's died for you more times than probably even he can remember, and you're still surprised that he'll do _this_, for you."

He actually frowns. "For me?"

Oh, could he _be_ any more obtuse? "Yes, Doctor, for you. He knows if he doesn't do what I want, I just might start hurting you instead. And you're old and infirm and really, how much of that sort of thing could _you_ take?"

He flinches back from my innocent little pout and I grin again. "And all right, yes, he enjoys the sex too," I admit, with a little roll of my eyes. "But the prospect of hot sex alone, even with me, wouldn't be enough for your Captain to give himself up to me. It's just a bonus. He's doing this for you, Doctor."

I lean in again, eyes narrowed. "What did you ever do to deserve such devotion? More, what did you ever do to _inspire_ it?"

Must have been one hell of a fuck you gave him. Well, yeah, it would have been. You and Handsome Jack together? I'd have liked to have seen that.

Hmm….

There's a loud gasp followed by a lot of coughing as Jack revives, and I turn sharply towards him. He convulses against his chains and tries to stand up, but lacks the necessary co-ordination so soon after death and collapses limply onto the table again. He looks lovely, flushed and humiliated, coming round chained and half-naked. And yes, it was deliberate on my part, leaving him there like that. Nothing like a little humiliation to remind someone of his place. 

Unless of course he _likes_ being humiliated.

I jerk my head at the nearest soldier. “Get him dressed and on his knees again. And clean the table.”

When my order has been fulfilled, I move to stand in front of Jack. “Well, Captain! That was quite some ride we had there.” I grin, smug as anything. “Was it good for you, Captain?”

Not that I really need to ask. The evidence is staining the front of his T-shirt and making it cling to his abs.

He looks up at me, still a little wobbly, apparently trying to get his head round how to answer. If I was the Doctor (not that the Doctor would ever do that to him – though, oh, the image!) he’d probably be grinning weakly and declaring, “Hell, yeah!” But I’m not the Doctor, and Jack does not want to give me the satisfaction of admitting how much he enjoyed it.

Oh, Jack, when are you going to learn? You don’t get a choice in these matters.

I place a single finger beneath his chin and tip his head back a little further. “Captain?” I ask patiently.

He draws in a shaky breath, and I feel the pressure against my finger as his instincts tell him to lower his head because he doesn't want to look me in the eye as he answers. “Yeah, it was good,” he admits wearily.

I treat him to a brilliant smile in reward. “Oh, yes it was, wasn’t it? Bet that was a first for you, eh, Captain? Dying during sex? How did it _feel_?”

I don't really expect an answer, but it's worth a try. I’m still not getting anywhere with my comparative deaths study and I'm taking every opportunity to try and prise information out of him.

I’ve got my chart all set up in his room, though I went for a wallchart in the end, having decided that a flipchart was too much of a weapon to be left with the Captain, and I did so want to leave it in there with him. So I’ve got a big chart blu-tac’d up on the wall beside the door, with a list of all the deaths I want to try on him and columns for how much I enjoy watching them, and how much they hurt. The first column already has scores for laser-beam (6/10 – efficient, but over far too quickly) and laser-drilling (8.5/10 – obviously painful, not too fast, not too messy), but the second column is so far empty.

Because I haven’t yet managed to make Jack tell me how the two ways I’ve already killed him felt. A problem I hadn’t anticipated, and one I haven’t been able to solve. It’s not like I can make him talk by threatening to _kill_ him, is it?

I keep adding to it, though, partly because I like lists and partly because I want him to be able to dwell on it at his leisure. I’m going to need a second piece of paper soon.

For a moment, I think I’ve finally managed to trick him into talking about this most recent death (after all, it was on my list). But he’s far too astute, is Jack, even this soon after coming back to life. He goes so far as to smile slightly, lift an eyebrow at me, and say, “It was good. One of the better ways to die. And, actually, not the first time.”

Which answers my question without really telling me much I didn’t already know.

Damn it. How am I going to get him to talk properly? I want details!

The Doctor shifts behind me and I swing round, primed to ward off a threat, my mind still so full of the image of sexy young Doctor shagging Jack that I’ve forgotten momentarily how different the Doctor looks now. It comes as quite a shock when I see him, still sitting there in his wheelchair, the sound I heard merely his weight shifting a little.

Oh, he looks horrible like that! I want my Doctor back. I've got to figure this out.

How can I have my young, attractive Doctor at my side _and_ stop him getting up to any mischief?

* * *

It's not until later that night when I'm fucking Lucy from behind and pretending she's someone else that the solution to both problems comes to me.

_I_ want the Doctor young again. The _Doctor_ sure as hell wants to be young again.

And judging by the pitying, guilty looks Jack kept sending the Doctor this afternoon when he thought I wasn't looking, _Jack_ wants him young again too. Probably has some hair-brained idea that a young, strong Doctor would be more likely to find a way to thwart me. As if.

So all I have to do is go to Jack, shame-faced and defeated, and grudgingly offer him what he wants – the Doctor de-aged – in return for what _I_ want – his co-operation with my comparative deaths study.

We all win, but me most of all.

As for the dear Doctor, it's taken me a while, but I've finally worked it out. I've ample evidence now of what will keep him in line. And I don’t need a complicated DNA-ageing device. I just need Jack.


	7. Part 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Doctor and the Master have a good time; Jack not so much

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](https://unfeathered.livejournal.com/26418.html) on 4 October 2007 and beta'd by [becky_h](https://becky_h.livejournal.com), [_medley_](https://_medley_.livejournal.com) and [jadesfire](https://jadesfire.livejournal.com)

Three days later, I de-age the Doctor.

He's been working hard on the Paradox Machine and has finally managed to stabilise it so it's no longer in immediate danger of stalling. That definitely deserves a reward and gives me a believable reason to make him young again. (I'm not telling him outright that I traded his youth for Jack's co-operation. I'm not admitting to having that little control over my prisoners. He'd enjoy that far too much.)

Anyway, it'll also mean he can actually reach all those places in the TARDIS he's having trouble getting to in his decrepit old body. Just because he's solved the initial problems doesn't mean there won't be other things to sort out, not to mention regular maintenance. And having him around to get on with that frees me to look after my now-established empire down there on Earth.

Which in turn gives me more time to play with my Doctor. Or it will. Once he's young again. Grandpas don't do much for me.

I enter the bridge humming _Ding Dong Merrily On High_ and scamper over to the Doctor. "Happy Christmas, Gramps," I grin at him, bouncing into my seat and spinning round a complete 360 degrees before stopping dead facing him.

He frowns. "It's not Christmas."

As if it matters! "Well, it's December. Advent. Not long to go. Have to get some decorations up in here, actually. Maybe a tree. What d'you think?"

Nothing, of course. Oh, he's so _dull_ like this. It's definitely time. "Anyway, got a present for you, Doc," I smirk, and I aim my screwdriver at him.

The Doctor stares at me in shock in a classic 'what am I supposed to have done?' look, and his hands clench on the arms of his wheelchair.

I laugh. "It's all right, Doctor. I'm not going to hurt you. Well… I _am_ going to hurt you, but it's in a good cause. You're getting too staid and boring in this old body. I'm going to put some life back into you!"

I fire.

I haven't been able to help wondering if the years coming off will hurt as much as they did going on. And judging by the way the Doctor's flailing and twisting and shrieking, they do. He ends up crumpled on the floor, and I lean back in my chair, twirling my screwdriver, gazing down at him and waiting for him to recover.

It takes a minute for me to realise he's trembling. He's curled up on the floor, one hand creeping up to feel the back of his head – as if he can't quite believe there's short, soft hair there again – the other cradling, and hiding, his face.

I lean forward, not sure what to do, what to think. "Doctor?"

The shaking increases, and now I'm fairly sure he's laughing. Reaction, no doubt. Got to be an intense experience, all that age coming off.

I slide off the chair and onto my knees beside him. "Doctor?" I ask again, louder this time. Still not quite daring to touch him.

At last, he lifts his head a little, though not enough for me to see his face. "Can you warn me next time you're going to do that, please?" he says irritably.

I snigger. "That wouldn't be nearly so much fun, would it?" Tentatively, I reach out and push his hand away from his face so I can see it. I peer into his eyes, which are dark and unfocussed. "Are you all right?"

"Will be. Just give me a minute. Gotta get used to – to this body again."

And what a body it is. A little scrawny, for so much height, but it has surprisingly graceful long limbs, beautiful long-fingered hands, and a pale thin face that's perfect for someone who angsts as much as my Doctor. The eyes are the only part of it with which I'm really familiar – the only part that remained with the extra hundred years piled on top of it all.

I swallow, because I'm getting a purely physical reaction to this body that I didn't anticipate. Well, didn't expect it to be this strong, anyway.

He starts to move again, to get to his feet, and I tuck a hand under his upper arm – ugh, definitely scrawny – to help him up. I guide him not back to his wheelchair but over to my own seat at the head of the conference table, and kick the wheelchair back out of the way. He settles into the chair without demur, apparently still weak from the de-aging. It really does seem to have had an effect on him – apart from the obvious, I mean. I lean a hip against the table and ask eagerly, because I can't wait any longer, "What does it feel like, Doctor? Does it hurt as much coming off as it does going on? Does it feel like layers of skin being ripped off your body?"

He gives me a limpid look that makes me grin inside because I've _missed_ him! "D'you think I'm Jack, or something? We're not doing comparative death studies now. You want to know how much it hurts, try it out on yourself."

Got him. "Ah! So it _does_ hurt, then!"

He snorts and his look turns scathing. "No, I was screaming with joy. Of course it hurts!"

My lips twitch, and I raise an eyebrow suggestively. "Time was, you used to like a bit of pain, Doctor."

Something ignites behind the derision of his gaze, as he counters my come-on. "Time was, Master, so did you."

We're staring at each other again, wildly, like that first night he was on the _Valiant_. Only this time he's not some horrible ancient gnome, but a very attractive young man. And this time, I don't have to go back to being angry with him. I keep staring, holding his eyes, laughter bubbling up in counterpoint to the surging drums as his gaze progresses from uncertainty to longing to arousal.

This time, it's him who breaks it.

"Why?" he asks, looking down at his lovely young hands, curled in his lap. "Why did you do this? Why now?"

I smile fondly. "I missed you, Doctor. You weren't the same. I needed you old and weak while I was getting things up and running, but I've time to pay attention to you now. Which is partially thanks to you and all your work on the Paradox Machine, so think of it as a reward if you like."

He's leaning forward now, eyes on my face again, narrowed and mistrustful. "And that's it? I didn't think… I didn't expect… You're risking a hell of a lot here, and you're doing it just because you _missed_ me?"

I lean forward too and ghost a hand down the side of his smooth, young cheek. He shivers, but doesn't move away. "Because I've missed you so very much, Doctor. How long has it been? For either of us? Decades? Centuries? We've died, and regenerated, and I've been human – and actually, you've been human too, haven't you? For a little while? – and I… I do miss you."

Hell, I'm sounding weak here. It saddens me that I have to lower myself to this to seduce my Doctor. But it's having the desired effect. The Doctor's eyes have gone big and dark and his pulse is starting to pick up. I grin, and come away from the table, giving his chair a little push as I pass it so that it revolves to face the stairs. I go up a couple of steps and turn, hands on the banisters, and give him my very best friendly, sincere smile, which he misses because he's looking anywhere but at my face. "Admit it, Doctor. You miss me too."

A pause. Then… "Never could resist you," he says gruffly, and raises those dark, haunted eyes to mine again. "Well, physically, at least."

I pout. "Come on, Doctor, you know it's my mind that does it for you as much as my body. Otherwise why would you still want me in every body I've ever had?"

He grins suddenly, a cheeky, schoolboy grin that lights up his whole face. "Oh all right, then. I admit it. I want you, Master. Always have."

I can't stop a little moan escaping at that. "Oh, Doctor, you know what that does to me. When you use my name."

His grin spreads and his eyes dance. "Yeah. I know."

Yes. He does, doesn't he? I hesitate, suspicion flitting through my mind.

Then he says it again, "_Master_," and I don't care any more. He's here and he's young and he's mine and it doesn't matter how much he really means it because when he says my name like that, _I_ can't resist _him_.

He sits there, smiling, with those hot eyes staring into mine and says it once more, low and throaty, because he _knows_ it'll make me come undone: "_Master_."

Oh, he's really asking for it. I'm not sure exactly what 'it' is, but he's definitely asking for it. I jump down to the floor, using my grip on the railings to launch myself across to him, and bend over him, weight on the arms of his chair. "Oh, I'm going to make you say that over and over, later on, till you're sick of my name. And then make you say it some more."

We're grinning crazily at each other, almost daring each other, and it's as if time has turned back and we're just two schoolboys again, as if none of the other stuff ever happened.

"Master?" One of the soldier-boys walks over, holding out his walkie-talkie to me, and I straighten reluctantly. It must be important or he wouldn't be disturbing me – they're pretty well-trained now, these soldiers. Which is not surprising, considering who trained them. Didn't need to kill many of them to get the rest to pay attention.

I snatch the walkie-talkie and pace away from the Doctor. No need for him to overhear anything he doesn't have to. "What is it?" I ask, sounding testy.

The voice on the other end, another soldier, sounds apologetic in response. "Master, I think you'll want to get down here. Captain Harkness has been – um – causing trouble."

I walk briskly right down to the other end of the room, out of earshot of the Doctor. "What? What sort of trouble?" What on earth could he even do? The guards never go in alone so it's unlikely he could overpower them, and there's nothing in his room to use as a weapon.

"It's all right, Master, he's still contained. It's just… He got into a rage and tore down your chart. And – um – "

"Spit it out, Sergeant."

" – Ripped it into little pieces."

Oh Jack. So perfect. Nothing at all that you can do to actually threaten me, so you've resorted to just trying to annoy me. Not working, Captain. I've been waiting for this. Why else would I keep my list of ways to die where you can see it?

Yes, I've been waiting for you to crack. Looking forward to it, actually.

Not as much as giving my Doctor a good shagging, but I can wait a little longer. Anticipation and all that.

I tell the Sergeant I'll be down in a minute, and stride back over to the Doctor.

"Sorry, Doctor, little bit of business requiring my attention. Got to go." I smile, and lean in close to his anxious, questioning face. "But I'll be back with you later. Don't worry about that. See you later, sweetheart."

I launch a little kiss towards him, then turn and direct a harsh look at the guards lining the walls. "Watch him," I say meaningfully, because the Doctor's newly youthful and might see that as a challenge, and leave for Captain Jack's room.

* * *

Jack's snarling angry, held tightly between two soldiers and fighting them every inch of the way. The floor of his room is littered with tiny, tiny pieces of paper. A very thorough job. Nothing whatsoever left of my lovely wallchart.

"Oh dear, Captain," I say softly, surveying his work and shaking my head gently. "Temper get the better of you, did it? I hope it was satisfying. Because it'd have to be really, _really_ satisfying to make it worth the consequences." I lift my eyes from the mess with relief and tilt my head disdainfully. "You've destroyed all my hard work. Completely destroyed it. Not very wise, eh?"

He struggles furiously, trying to get at me, and they force him back. I smile, and snort gently. "Well, that can mean only one thing, Captain. Obviously, I have to start all over again."

I can see the _Oh, fuck_ moment hit him. The colour drains from his face and his mouth falls open. He stands still at last, breathing hard.

I sneer at him. "Yes, Captain. We're going to have to do it all again. All – " I frown, pretending to have forgotten. "How many deaths have we tried now?"

"I thought Time Lords had perfect memories?" Jack grates out.

I curl my lip. "Oh, we do. But let's pretend we don't, and I need to collect the data again. The question really is: how good is _your_ memory, Jack? Will you give me the same scores as before? Because if you don't, I might just have to keep repeating the exercise until I get reliable data."

That gets me a tiny shiver. But his response is as belligerent as hell. "What if I've decided I've co-operated enough in this little study of yours and I'm not going to tell you anything?"

I raise my eyebrows. "What if I tell you I de-aged your beloved Doctor a few minutes ago and that if you refuse to tell me anything he's going straight back to needing that wheelchair again? Poor thing. That's a rotten thing to do to him, Captain."

He doesn't ask for proof that I've actually done it. He doesn't need it. If there's even a shred of hope that I'm telling the truth, it's enough to make co-operation worthwhile. He stares at me for a long moment, jaw clenched tightly. Then he breathes in through his nose and exhales slowly, and the antagonism seeps out of him. He bows his head; I get a strong impression that if he hadn't been held so tightly between the soldiers, he would have knelt. “Yes, Master,” he says gently. “Whatever you want.”

I grin, and rub my hands. "I knew you'd see it my way! Right, then! Where shall we start? Where did we start originally? Oh, yes." I draw my laser screwdriver and aim it at his chest. "I think it went something like this."

* * *

Re-enacting the three deaths Jack's already died for me only takes a few hours, and works as a very pleasant form of foreplay before my date with the Doctor. Not that it would work that way for the Doctor, but he doesn't have to know about it. Not yet, anyway.

And it is only foreplay. Even though I fuck Jack again as I strangle him, and he comes as he's dying, just the same as before, I don't climax myself.

I'm saving myself for my Doctor.

I send someone to tell Lucy I won't be with her tonight. Poor Lucy. She’s having to get rather used to that, I'm afraid. After all, how can a mere human, beautiful as she is, hope to compete with the allure of a hero who cannot die and the foe who's spent most of his life trying to bring me down?

I collect the Doctor and we walk arm in arm down to the spare bedroom I've had ready for exactly this since I took over the _Valiant_. It's well-equipped for just about every eventuality. Certainly for containing a highly inventive Time Lord while he's fucked senseless by his arch-enemy.

"Chains?" he asks, staring at them sprouting from each corner of the bed. "I'd have thought you'd want something a tad more… reciprocal." He looks up at me, a little tetchy. "As I keep telling you, I'm not Jack."

I ignore the absurd implication that the chains turn him on any less than they do his Captain, and answer the other side of his accusation. "And I don't think you are," I say sweetly. "Do you see me taking him in a bed – a very large and luxurious bed – or offering him champagne and roses? Or, for that matter, nice comfy leather cuffs?"

The Doctor swallows and looks round again, taking in the room anew. The dim, intimate lighting. The deep pile of the dark red carpet. The creamy satin sheets. The window looking out onto the stars, so beautiful from up here.

"All right," he says slowly, looking confused and lost. "You don't think I'm Jack. Who _do_ you think I am?"

Oh, Doctor. Giving me all the right cues. I swagger across to him and stroke his cheek again, lightly. "Who do I think you are? The boy who used to be my friend. The man who used to be my enemy." He stirs a little at the words 'used to', and I shush him with a fingertip on his lips. "The man I can't live without, and who can't live without me. My rival, my equal, my everything. My Doctor."

His mouth has fallen open beneath my finger as he stares down at me. (Damn. De-aged and standing, he's taller than I am, _again_. Why is he always taller than me?) I resist the impulse to take advantage of that open mouth and slip my finger inside, and instead trail it lightly over his bottom lip till it flips shut again with a little 'plop'. The Doctor comes back to himself with a jerk and takes an automatic step backwards out of range, but doesn't say anything. He seems, for once, at a loss for words.

I smile gently, warmly, genuinely. "Let's get this thing going, shall we, Doctor? Fancy getting out of those clothes?"

He's still in a bit of a daze. If I'd known those words would have got me this quiet, attentive Doctor I would have used them weeks ago. He pulls off his coat and flings it onto a nearby chair, all without taking his eyes off me, and then starts to strip off the rest of his many layers of clothing.

I watch it all avidly, feeling my breath speed up with anticipation. I've waited so long for this. Seeing my Doctor expose himself to me so willingly, body and soul, increases my impatience to such a point that as soon as he's naked I'm pushing him backwards onto the bed. He doesn't resist. I crawl up over him, shift him up a bit, pull a bit more of the chains out of their sockets and close the cuffs round his slender wrists.

Just in case. I can't trust him yet. He's a wily old character, my Doctor, and leaving him free would be just asking for trouble. So I have to chain him, for now. Later, when I've seen how he's going to behave, when I know I can trust him, maybe I'll leave the chains off.

Or maybe I won't. They do add a certain something to the picture.

I wriggle backwards off the bed again, ignoring the Doctor's little whimper as I leave him. I stand at the end of the bed, still fully dressed, and look down at him: naked and chained and ready for me.

Oh and he's ready all right. Cock jutting hard and proud from those narrow hips, mobile lips parted and thin chest rising and falling fast, eyes pools of darkness in that pale face, fixed on mine. This new body of his – slender, gaunt, almost asexual in its unforgiving boniness – is the closest he's had yet to that of the boy I once knew, once played with, fooled around with, learned with.

I remember that first time, the first time for both of us; the way he trembled beneath me, wanting me inside but fearing it all the same. And a thought occurs to me.

I kick off my shoes and get back up onto the bed, astride his long legs, and smirk. "Ever been fucked in this body, Doctor?"

His eyes go wide and he shakes his head.

"Oooh, so I'm your first? Virgin territory! "S gonna be tight, Doctor."

"Oh, shut up," he says irritably. "It's not like I've never – "

He breaks off, abruptly.

I pounce. "Never what, Doctor? Never stuck a huge dildo up there and wanked off, pretending it was me?"

He flushes but manages to counter with, "Wouldn't need a huge dildo if I was pretending it was you!"

Ouch, that hurts. I grin, pretending it doesn't, and say archly, "Oh, Doctor, you of all people should know that size isn't everything."

"What?" He strains to look down at his own amply-endowed body. "Why me?"

"Because of the things I can do with my non-huge cock," I say with exaggerated patience. He's so dense, sometimes. "The things I have _done_ in the past. To you.

"Not to mention what I can do with the rest of my body." To demonstrate, I lean down and lick a wide stripe all the way up his cock, from base to tip. The full-body shudder that gets me illustrates my point for me. I look up at him, taunting him with my eyes, and he glares back at me, helpless to deny, to reciprocate – well, just basically helpless. Gorgeous.

I lick my lips slowly. "Mmm, you taste nice, Doctor. I've missed that." I move up his body, deliberate and predatory. "D'you still taste so nice up here, too?"

I kiss him hard, feeling the drums surge through my mind as he immediately opens up and kisses me back. That tongue of his is incredible, long and narrow like the rest of his body, and oh so talented. And along with the drums, and the physical sensation, I get just a tiny taste of his thoughts.

Only a tiny one, because obviously there needs to be a hell of a lot more trust between us before either of us goes any further than that. But a tendril of desire unfurls into my mind, so gently that for a moment I think I'm imagining it. I don't have that kind of control over my own thoughts these days, not with the drums always pound-pound-pounding away in the background, and it takes me a moment to recognise it for what it is. I wonder if he's getting anything back from me, but if he is it doesn't seem to bother him. The thread thickens and intensifies, even as the Doctor moans into my mouth and bucks up against me, and I groan myself at the sheer quantity of evidence of his craving for me. I hold him down with my body and my hands, kissing him, smothering him in _me_, until he's bucking instead for air and I reluctantly lift off him. I gaze down at him as he lies there mussed and breathless and debauched, and grin wickedly.

"Oh, you've missed this, haven't you? It's good, isn't it, Doctor? Time Lords together? So much better than mere humans!"

He grins back, and it's not the schoolboy grin this time; it's feral and sinful and utterly delicious. Makes me swoop straight back down onto those wide pink lips and ravage them again, until they're dark with suffused blood, and there's red in his cheeks too, and life in his eyes that hasn't been there for weeks.

"Say my name," I entreat – no, not entreat, command – him, and he says it, still grinning, over and over and faster and faster until it's just meaningless sound and I tell him to stop.

He stops, and says instead, arrogantly, "So, are you going to fuck me at any point tonight, or are you just going to tease me till I explode?"

I leer up at him. "Ask me nicely, and we'll see."

He looks pointedly down his body to where my still-clothed but plainly hard cock is resting just inches away from his own bare one, and his dark eyebrows shoot high up on his forehead. "You mean you're prepared to forgo the pleasure of fucking me unless I _beg_ you to?" he asks, amused and disbelieving.

"Maybe." I ignore his snort and kneel up astride him, loosening the knot of my tie and pulling it off over my head before shrugging off my jacket. I hold his eyes as I deftly unbutton my shirt. "There are lots of ways I could satisfy myself with you like this, Doctor, without giving _you_ the chance to climax at all. I could jerk off on top of you, come all over you, and never even touch you." Ooh, a pretty picture, that. I pull my shirt off and start work on my trousers. "Or I could fuck that delicious mouth of yours and leave you humping thin air to try to get off." I scoot back off the bed to get my trousers and underwear off, then pull off my socks, and stand over him, nude at last. "Or I could go to the control room, turn on the camera for in here and jerk off to the picture of you lying here, chained and aroused and alone with absolutely no way of doing anything about it."

He's staring up at me, panting, long fingers clenched round the chains above his cuffs. "Please, Master," he says, voice husky with arousal. "Please fuck me. Please, Master. I beg you. Please. _Master!_"

I exhale slowly, and climb back on top of him. "My beautiful Doctor," I whisper. "Always so good with words. Well, Doctor, let this be the proof… Ask, and ye shall receive."

* * *

I prepare him myself, tenderly, carefully, because although from his reaction to my taunt it's clear he has played with something inside him, I'm also sure he was telling the truth when he admitted it would be this body's first time with a real cock. I kneel between his bent legs, long fingers deep inside him, learning this new body of his and what makes it react. Before long, he's taut with desire, arse off the bed in a silent entreaty for more.

Not that his mouth's silent, of course. Never quiet for long, my Doctor. His mouth's pleading too, with words and moans and gasps that beg just as eloquently as his body for me to fuck him, please, _right now_.

By this time I'm so far beyond ready myself that I waste no more time procrastinating. I prepare myself swiftly, get into position, and give him what he wants.

* * *

We come together, far too soon, in a maelstrom of emotions and drums and memories, shared and intertwined.

Afterwards, I undo one of his cuffs and hold him spooned against me, relaxed and content. The drums are quieter in my head than I can ever remember them. We lie there a long time together, comforter and comforted. At length, exhausted perhaps by the sheer physical impact of having lost a hundred years _and_ getting fucked for the first time in goodness knows how long, my Doctor sleeps. I lie still, and watch over him until ultimately I too am drawn into slumber.

* * *

Next morning, I have the Doctor taken back up to the bridge, while I make my way cheerfully down to the Captain's room. One more death seems to be in order, to complete the lesson being taught. A nice slow death to make absolutely sure I've driven the point home.

I think starvation might do it.


	8. Part 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Master enjoys Christmas Day on the _Valiant_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](https://unfeathered.livejournal.com/26418.html) on 26 November 2007 and beta'd by [_medley_](https://_medley_.livejournal.com), [mad_jaks](https://mad_jaks.livejournal.com) and [jadesfire](https://jadesfire.livejournal.com)

I look down at Jack as he kneels before me, fully-clothed because I didn't give him time to go and prepare for me. He's a little bemused by that fact. Not sure what to expect.

I lean back against the door, hands in the small of my back, flat against the cold steel. “I really do feel we need one more death, Captain. Just to make absolutely sure yesterday's lesson has gone home. I was thinking we might try starvation.”

Jack does his utmost not to give me a reaction, he really does. But he can’t stop his cheeks paling slightly, his muscles tensing just a little. I pounce.

“Ahhh. Been starved before, have we, Captain?”

He knows there's no point in denying it. “Yeah,” he says wearily. “You really don’t need to try that one. I can give you your score without a replay.”

He clearly expects me to try it anyway. After all, knowing how much he dreads it does make it a rather attractive plan, doesn’t it?

He just doesn’t realise that causing physical suffering isn’t always the most satisfying option. Sometimes it can be sweeter to make someone fear the physical suffering, and then earn their gratitude by _not_ putting them through it after all.

I wonder if I can actually get him to beg? He hasn’t done a lot of begging. Not real begging. He doesn't even beg to come, because I usually let him anyway – I _want_ him to enjoy it – I love having the power to make him enjoy it, and not letting him come would be just silly. In fact, I think I've seen the Doctor beg more than I have Jack, these last few weeks. And I’d like to see Jack Harkness beg. Properly. From fear.

I come away from the door and walk towards him. “Hmmm,” I say slowly, taking my time and watching the alarm grow in his eyes, however much he tries to hide it. “The replay _is_ part of the fun, Jack. I’d need an awful lot of detail to make it worth my while not making you go through it again.”

“As much detail as you like,” he says hoarsely. The tip of his tongue sneaks out to moisten his lips, momentarily distracting me.

“We-ll,” I say, pretending to waver. “I suppose it would save me a lot of time. How long does it take to starve to death, Jack?”

“From my present condition?" Which is pretty much perfect, after all. I look him over, enjoying what I see. Oh yes. Perfect. I nod, smiling.

Jack swallows, contemplating the idea. When he answers, there's a definite quaver in his voice, though he tries to sound calm. "Without food _and_ water, about three to seven days. With water, but without food, could be a _lot_ longer. Three weeks, maybe."

“Hmm. That _is_ a long time, and time I could use to do other things to you instead, couldn’t I? Maybe even some things you wouldn’t mind as much as dying, eh?” I grin, and watch him try to gather the courage to lower himself to the level of begging.

Not quite there yet. Perhaps a little prod.

"Nah, you know, I don't think I want to forgo starving you myself," I say. "Nothing quite like observing at first hand, and knowing who's responsible. I think I want to watch you starve, Jack. Every day a little weaker, the gnawing emptiness a little harder to bear. With no visits, no distractions, nothing to measure time by. Going slowly mad with hunger. It's got to be entertaining."

Got him.

He looks down, drawing in strength, then raises his eyes again to mine, hollow and frightened. It makes the drums swell in my head. "Please," he whispers, breath coming a little fast.

I raise my eyebrows and lean in, hand to ear. "Sorry, what was that, Jack? Couldn't quite hear you?"

Come on, Captain. Plead for your life. Plead really well and I'll let you keep it.

He swallows again. He's actually trembling a little. His hands even come out from behind his back in his instinctive need to gesticulate to get his message across. "Please. Please don't make me go through that again. I – " He breaks off; clears his throat. "Please, Master."

Oh, that's beautiful. So very beautiful. I feel my mouth stretch into a ridiculous grin.

"Well, Jack," I say thoughtfully, "since you asked so nicely…" I take a couple of steps towards him. "Tell me all about the time you starved before, and if it satisfies me well enough, I won't make you go through it all again. Deal?"

His relief is impossible to hide, though he doesn't fail to notice that it's conditional on him telling his story well enough. "Thank you, Master," he says, and I could kiss him, he's so adorable.

I smile again, and move to sit down near him, leaning back against the wall and putting my hands behind my head. I gesture him to sit too and he does, shifting onto his arse and propping his forearms on his knees. "All right then," I say coolly. "Talk. Tell me all about it, Captain. Tell me really well, and it might just save your life. For a while."

* * *

He spins a good tale, does Jack Harkness. Good enough to get him out of being starved again – for the moment, at least. I have no way of knowing how much of it is true (I keep trying to get into his head, but something's shielding him and with the drums shattering my control I haven't got anywhere), but it's a rousing story of human suffering. Apparently, he was starved to death, deliberately, by the Russians during the Cold War, and only managed to escape once he'd died and finally been removed from his cell. I can see why my threat hit a little close to home. I lap up his description of the anguish of an empty belly that would never see food again in that life, the misery of hunger gnawing at his insides, the horror of feeling his body shut down as it devoured itself to prolong life as long as possible, the despair of knowing that there would be no escape until death arrived.

I grow hard as I listen, and I see him notice it without surprise. He doesn't comment on it, though, just finishes the story, and then stops and looks at me, calm and contained. Waiting.

Oh, yes, he knows what's coming next.

That'd be me.

* * *

Two weeks after not starving Jack to death, it's Christmas. I've decided to have a very human Christmas. After all, I have a family now, here on the _Valiant_, and Christmas is a time for families. So I make my plans to celebrate.

Christmas Day is perfect, from start to finish.

I wake up with my exquisite wife, and watch her open the trinkets in her stocking – diamond ring, diamond necklace, diamond bracelet; dainty silk underwear; a revealing satin negligée – with the wonder of a little girl. Once upon a time, I'd have bought her wonders from across the galaxy, but stuck on Earth this is the best I can do.

My children, the Toclaphane, gather round to watch the presents being opened. I have no gifts for them – what could I give them beyond what I have already given them, the chance to live? – but they hover and squeal with delight along with Lucy as she opens one delicate package after another to reveal the delights within. I sit and watch indulgently, feeling like Santa Claus and God rolled into one.

Afterwards, I show Lucy her other present. I've filled her entire wardrobe with red dresses, each different from the other. There are silks and velvets and laces; dresses with frills and flounces; long, figure-hugging gowns; short, cute smocks; slips and feathers and evening dresses… Everything a girl could want. And all red.

Lucy stares at them for ages and I watch anxiously, because I want her to like them. Then she slides her hand down one long, slippery dress and whispers, awed, "Thank you, Harry. They're beautiful! So beautiful!" She turns and smiles at me, back to the little girl. "Which one shall I wear?"

I choose one, one of the more demure ones, and she puts it on. She looks beautiful, as always. I made a good choice with her. Lucy's the sort of girl who even wakes up beautiful. In this outfit, she looks like a china doll. It's a short pinafore dress, with pockets on the skirt and big buttons at the shoulders. She puts it on with a cream polo neck sweater, thick cream tights and little red velvet shoes and in it she looks like the pictures of her at fifteen, just awakening into womanhood but very much still a child.

Which is exactly what I intended. After all, we're having her parents over for Christmas lunch, and I want them to know I'm looking after their daughter. That I'm not corrupting her. That, whatever they've heard, about the slums and the shipyards, the screams and the deaths – in short, whatever they've heard about me since I took over the Earth, their daughter is safe with me.

* * *

After breakfast, I make a short trip to see the Doctor and then decide to visit Captain Jack for a Christmas treat. After being so generous to others, I feel I deserve something special for myself.

As I walk down there, I mull over how to kill him. What’s a nice seasonal way to die?

Well, I suppose starvation would have been a really nasty, ironic way to die at Christmas. I'm hit by an intensely vivid image of Jack, chained and starving, forced to look on as the rest of us eat Christmas dinner, filling our bellies to bursting while he drools and pleads… But I promised him I wouldn't starve him. Not yet, anyway. And I'd have had needed to start before today to get much effect out of the Christmas dinner.

Hmm, Christmas isn’t that easy. Now if it had been Easter, the choice would be really obvious. Oooh, have to remember that one. And what a shame I missed Guy Fawkes!

Well, I suppose there’s the seasonal ice and snow thing. I could freeze him to death. On the other hand, the kitchen staff might not be too happy about having a man stuck in their freezer while they’re trying to make Christmas dinner, and I don’t want to antagonise them too much. I’m eating that Christmas dinner, after all!

Besides, he might not thaw out in time for the Christmas party this evening.

I could do drowning, though. Water is connected to ice and snow, and I feel like something violent. Ah, yes. Drowning it shall be.

Jack moves into a kneel as I enter, as always. It’s so expected I don’t really notice now, except when he doesn’t do it. Which is hardly ever.

“Morning, Captain!" I say brightly. "Do you know what day it is?”

He looks up at me, with absolutely no hope in his eyes. “Well, if what the guards have been saying is right, it’s Christmas.”

I feel a slight frown crease my forehead as I wonder just how much the soldiers talk to him. I ought to look into that. But I’m glad he knows it’s Christmas. He'll have been wondering just what I'll do to him to celebrate.

“That’s right, Captain,” I say happily. “Christmas. Goodwill to all men, and all that. And I’ve given Lucy and the Doctor their presents and now I’ve come down here for _my_ present. A nice little death from my favourite immortal.”

I leer at him suggestively and he groans gently. “You know, I used to like it better when you just fucked me. All this dying… not so much fun.”

“Well, let’s do a deal, Captain." I let the smile fade from my face so that he knows to take me seriously. "You die for me now, suffer beautifully for me, give me something to really enjoy, and I’ll let you have some fun by coming to my Christmas party tonight.”

I wait while he takes this in. He’s still for a moment, looking a little stunned, then the surprise fades as he considers the offer. It’s not an offer I would expect most men to even think of agreeing to. (Well, all right, there aren’t many men you can ask to die for you so that _then_ they can go to a party!) But Jack Harkness is not most men. Death is something he’s intimately familiar with, something he knows he can face, knows he can come back from. And he’s been here in this cell, virtually alone, for two months now. He's been seeing a lot less even of me since I made the Doctor young and fun again. An evening spent somewhere else, in company, must be worth quite a lot to someone in his position.

I watch as Jack makes his decision, watch as his eyes light up and he even starts to smile. Finally, he looks up at me. “Deal,” he says without a qualm. Then he sighs, spreads his arms a little and tips his head back, and says, “Happy Christmas, Master. How may I die for you today?”

A tiny part of me wonders if he's actually becoming just a little blasé about death. The rest of me, however, responds in a very predictable way. I suck my lips in between my teeth to keep control and say, "Drowning, Jack. Ever done that one before?"

He tenses slightly. Not too blasé, then. "No, Master."

I smile maliciously. "Good. I do my best to be original. Of course, it's just that little bit harder in your case, but I'll keep on trying."

"I appreciate that, Master," he says, straight-faced, and actually he probably does. At least with a new kind of death, he can hope it's not as bad as he's heard it is. With one he's tried before, he knows exactly how bad it's going to be.

"Right, then, up you get!" I say cheerfully, crossing to the bathroom door and unlocking it. I hold it open for him and look back at him as he slowly gets to his feet, not quite sure where I'm going with this. "You can run the bath while I get the handcuffs," I tell him, jerking my head towards the bathroom to hurry him up, and he finally walks past me, glancing back at me as if to check I really mean it. I snort impatiently, and let go of the door. "Nice and full, Captain," I call over my shoulder as I head for the cupboard. "And cold. I don't think we need warm water to drown you in."

The bath is full by the time I get back, the water barely an inch below the rim. I make a big show of checking the temperature with my hand, though I don't really expect Jack to have disobeyed me. What would be the point? It's nicely chilly. I dry my hand thoughtfully on one of the rather rough towels they've given him, working out the best way to do this without getting too wet myself. I meet Jack's eyes and say, succinctly, "Wrists."

I thoroughly enjoy the way he stiffens before turning round and presenting his wrists – because however much he secretly enjoys submitting, being chained is _always_ a big deal. It's never easy to let an enemy restrain you, and Jack always gives me a gratifying reaction when the cuffs close round his elegant wrists. The best bit is putting the left cuff on – he always flinches beautifully when I touch the skin where he used to wear that leather contraption of his. Even two months after he so selflessly gave it up to the Jones girl, he's still more sensitive on that wrist.

When he's secured, I gesture him to his knees again before the bath, and he hesitates delightfully before obeying. His breath is coming faster now in anticipation. I move to stand behind him and he quivers slightly. But his next words are as calm and as natural as ever.

"Would you like me to struggle, Master?"

Oh my. He's so incredibly _right_ for all this. I wind my fingers into his hair, getting a good grip. And grin tightly. "Oh, you'll struggle all right, Jack. Don't worry about that!" And I shove his head down into the water.

* * *

He does struggle, of course. It's an instinctive reaction, even from someone who knows he'll be coming back from death. At one point, he bucks so hard I can't hold him, and we both topple backwards onto the floor. He chokes and retches, breath bubbling, and fights fiercely when I try to haul him up again. I still win, though, mainly because there's only so much you can fight with your hands chained behind you. I end up with one knee atop his upper back, pinning him down onto the edge of the bath, one hand on the back of his collar (why d'you think I left him dressed?) and the other strongly entwined in his hair. I plunge him back into the water, and this time manage to suppress his struggles until all the air has bubbled out of his lungs and he's totally limp beneath me.

I leave him there, hanging into the water, dark hair spreading in a fan around his head, and get the guards to see to him while I go and change for lunch. I'm almost as wet as Jack is, and I hate being soggy. But I'm euphoric from the struggle. Nothing like a nice bit of violence to make one's Christmas.

* * *

Christmas lunch is a hoot.

There we are, Lord and Lady Cole, all staid and snooty, and Lucy slipping back into the role of dutiful daughter that she'd played all her life till she met me. I try to be the attentive son-in-law they thought she'd married but I can't help letting go occasionally with inappropriate remarks that set their brows furrowing and make their faces go hard. Which of course only cracks me up even further.

And then there's the Doctor.

Yes, he's there. Of course. I couldn't have Christmas dinner without my Doctor! _His_ present this morning was a nice little dose of torture, in the form of being re-aged a hundred years, and now he's sat there in his wheelchair pretending to be my Uncle Albert. "Not actually family," I'd told the Coles, introducing him – because I'd told them long ago that my family was dead. "But the only person who remembers me from my childhood." I like using the truth when I can. Makes me feel all clever.

We eat at the big table on the bridge. I would have hosted Christmas dinner in our private dining room, but I'm making a point of not letting the Doctor anywhere near my quarters. In fact, I don't think he even knows where they are. He rarely leaves the bridge, and whenever he does, it's with me. And I do make sure to change the soldiers on duty on the bridge regularly, so he doesn't have a chance to get too friendly with them and wheedle information out of them. Not that he's shown any sign of trying.

I've got the Jones family out of their cell at last, dressed them up in black and made them wait on us. Their faces are so funny, all tight-jawed and glaring, because they don't quite dare to disobey my orders. Reasonably enough: I did threaten to kill Jack in front of them if they refused, and they're unaccustomed enough to death as yet for that to be enough. But they can't – or won't – hide their resentment and the Coles' reaction to their attitude is hilarious.

"Are these the best servants you could find?" Lucy's mother asks me, shocked, as Mrs Jones gives her a very dark look whilst serving her soup.

"Ah, good servants are hard to come by these days," I reply offhandedly, leaning back in my chair and watching Francine as she serves the rest of the soup. When she's done, I beckon her over with a tiny jerk of my head, quirking one eyebrow but keeping my eyes cold, and she grits her teeth and walks over to me. "You might want to tone down the attitude a bit," I murmur lightly, and she looks at me with utter hatred and stalks away without a verbal response.

She does, however, serve the rolls with a little more respect and I don't have to admonish any of them for the rest of the meal.

The Doctor, a little surprisingly, is much better behaved. I had a bit of a fight with him this morning to get him to agree to be my Uncle Albert, but at dinner itself he plays his part faultlessly. I glance over at him suspiciously several times, wondering a little at his co-operation, but he just meets my gaze blandly and carries on talking. Presumably, he's just decided there's no point in annoying me by scandalising my in-laws. Which there isn't, because honestly, what would it achieve? A nice bit of torture and death for Jack, and really not much impact on my plans. It's not like I _need_ Lucy's parents any more. I'm only keeping them around for her sake.

Lucy's mother, polite as always, makes conversation with him and of course the question comes up: "What was your profession?"

"He used to be a Doctor," I tell her, cutting in with a very quick sly smile at the Doctor. "Always helping people, that's him. He's a very good man. And now he's old, he gets to just sit around while I look after him. As it should be."

Dinner finishes in nice time for the Christmas Day address. The Queen's still alive – the Toclaphane had strict instructions not to kill any of the Royal Family in their decimation - but she's hiding out in Switzerland and not really in a position to give the Queen's Speech in any case. (What is the country coming to? Three consecutive years without the Queen's Speech!) Anyway, this year I'm taking care of it on her behalf. Three o'clock, just the same as always. The only difference is that her speech used to be just to the nation. Mine's to the world.

After that, I see the Coles safely off to their plane, then head back to Jack's cell for the debriefing on drowning.

* * *

Drowning turns out to be an interesting death, statistically. Jack says it was scarier than he expected – head feeling like it was going to explode, blood pounding and chest tight and burning with the need for air… Even so it only gets a '6' from him for how much it hurt. But I found the struggle extremely satisfying so I give it a '9', which puts it level with strangulation for me. That one's still winning overall, since Jack gave it a '7' for pain, even though he did rather enjoy it too. It was a somewhat spectacular death.

When I've written in the scores on the lovely new chart on the wall, which has made it through the last two weeks unscathed, I turn back to Jack, hands in my pockets, and saunter over to him. "Well, I think that was a pleasing enough death to let you come to the party tonight," I say graciously, and watch him relax. I grin, and add offhandedly, "You can escort my wife."

His eyes widen. "You trust me with her?"

I chuckle. "Oh, I think she can handle a bit of flirting. She'll probably enjoy it. Or do you mean trust you not to corrupt her? Because honestly, Captain, you haven't got a chance. Lucy isn't some naïve little girl. She knows who I am, what I am, and she loves me for it."

I watch him absorb this, and smile maliciously. "So yes, I trust you to escort her. And by that I mean: look after her. Stay with her, make sure she always has a drink, get her food, entertain her, make her feel good. I’m sure that won’t be a problem for you. And of course I also mean: if I see you without her at any point during the evening, there will be – oh, I'm sure I can think of something nasty. Maybe something that doesn't actually involve dying, so you have to live through it without taking the easy way out for once."

Jack takes the threat in his stride, as I'm starting to expect of him, and instead quirks an eyebrow, picking up on one specific instruction. “You want me to accompany her to the _bathroom_?”

This conversation seems to be slipping away from me. “No, that won’t be necessary," I say firmly. "She wants to leave you for anything, you find yourself a nice young soldier to latch onto instead.” He starts to smirk, and I add quickly, “One who’s on duty. Wife or soldier – I’m happy with either. But I see you by yourself, Captain…

“Understood,” he says quietly, but the threat doesn’t extinguish the glint that’s appeared in his eyes and the new life in his body. He understands precisely how much I’m trying to curtail his fun, but he considers it worth it. He's probably excited at the prospect of seeing the Doctor again, and maybe I should worry about that, but I don't think they'll be able to get up to anything. Not with me around.

I turn to leave, then have another thought and spin back again. "Oh, and Captain?"

He raises his eyebrows. "Master?"

"You don't accompany my wife anywhere else either. She wants to go to bed, she goes alone, unless she has my express permission to take someone with her. And it won't be you." Not tonight, anyway. Another time… might be a nice little gift for her, to make up for how much I'm neglecting her. "And you go and find yourself that soldier escort we were talking about. Clear?"

He inclines his head, indicating perfect understanding. At least, I hope it's that, and not Jack seeing opportunities for mischief. "Crystal clear. Master."

I smile. "Good."

"What about the Doctor?"

"What about him?"

"Am I allowed to talk to him? Wave to him from across the room? Make eye contact? Breathe in his direction?"

That makes me smirk. Quick on the uptake he may be (especially on prisoner's etiquette), but it seems that Handsome Jack hasn't quite grasped the current relationship between his Master and his Doctor.

"Well," I drawl. "He'll be with me. So you want to talk to him, go ahead. But you won't be getting him without me."

"With… you?" he repeats slowly, as it gradually sinks in that perhaps he's got more to worry about than me hurting his Doctor. Possibly more to worry about now the Doctor's young again than he had when he was old.

"All night," I confirm, just to see his reaction.

Unfortunately for my entertainment, it's not easy to faze Captain Jack Harkness for long. After a moment more of that rather blank face, he relaxes into a grin. "All right," he says equably. "I suppose I should have expected that."

Yes, Captain, you really should.

I smile back, smugly. "So let's put it this way, Captain. I'll look after your Doctor for you, and you see you do the same by my wife. Deal?"

He lowers his eyes so that the lashes lie on his cheeks, knowing full well just how pretty it makes him. It occurs to me to wonder just how much he deliberately uses that against me. Like the Doctor, he knows the effect his submission has on me. I need to watch out for that.

He smiles very slightly. "Deal."


	9. Part 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Master hosts a Christmas party on the _Valiant_, and leaves with the Doctor…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter forms the second part of the _Master Plan_ 'Christmas Special', originally posted [here](https://unfeathered.livejournal.com/53633.html) on 27 November 2007.
> 
> Author's note: the donut the Doctor insists on feeding the Master is a reference to a series of crack fics my friends and I had going at the time I wrote this, involving [alien donuts](https://alien-donuts.livejournal.com/) that, well, tended to have a certain effect on those who ate them…

It's a slightly bizarre collection of people who gather on the bridge at eight o'clock. All the _Valiant_'s personnel really, because I want this to be a true office party. I asked dear little Tish all about what normally goes on, and I want to make sure this follows all the traditions. Which starts by making sure everyone attends. All the soldiers are there, some in uniform, on duty, the rest almost unrecognisable in civvies. The crew are there too, and the kitchen staff – again, some on duty – and the cleaners, even the three Joneses. Plus, of course, the Doctor (de-aged again), Jack and Lucy.

Lucy looks ravishing. Her dress is backless and not far from frontless, figure-hugging and, of course, red. Her shoes are red, her nails are red. The accent colour is gold: her jewellery, and her hair, which falls in curls round her lovely face. I feel my breath catch as I look at her because she's so beautiful, so cold, so hot, so very much what I've made her.

Jack, escorting her as promised, is dressed in his classic outfit of pale blue shirt, white T-shirt and navy trousers (with braces, of course), sleeves rolled up and his free hand – the one that isn't through Lucy's arm – in his pocket. He looks absolutely spiffy. I'm almost tempted to add Jack to the list for fucking later, but I'm trying _really_ hard to get my Doctor into bed again, and I'm not sure he's quite ready for threesomes with his lieutenant and his old flame yet.

I make my second global address of the day (on the radio this time – the whole world is going to be able to dance to the music from my party) from the steps at the head of the bridge.

"Citizens of Earth, rejoice. It's Christmas Day and your Master sits aloft, his ship shining like a star over Bethlehem to celebrate your saviour's birth! Well…" I glance sideways at the Doctor, young and pretty again, and not far from my side. "Not exactly his birth, but still – let's dedicate this party to him. Let's celebrate the Doctor, everyone. After all, I'm pretty sure there's a song about a spaceman who landed on Earth at Christmas to save all the little humans. Doesn't it go something like this?"

And I start up the music (ahhh, got to love a bit of Chris de Burgh!) with my screwdriver and sing along with the "La la-la la la-la la la-la laaaa" while everyone around me does their best not to cringe. Ah, absolute power is so good! I smile magnanimously round at them, and then hold up my hands.

"All right, all right, I was only kidding. We're going to be playing good music tonight! This party's going to have style! So here we are, let's start again. This is your Master, kicking off the party with – wait for it – a bit of Slade! Merry Christmas Everybody!"

Not much better, judging by some of their faces, but it's in your face and it suits me and that's what matters. And loud music always helps allay the constant pounding of the drums. I jump off the stairs and sing along and dance around while they watch me as if I was a crazy person – until I yell at them to join in, and then of course they do. Oh yes. I'm going to enjoy this party!

I drag the Doctor onto the floor and rather to my surprise he goes along with it. Not that he's going along with _everything_. I tried to get him to dress up a bit, but he wouldn't have any of it so he's wearing one of his boring old suits – though at least it's the blue one, which is a bit more festive than that boring old brown pinstripe.

As for me, I'm wearing the crimson waistcoat Lucy's mum embroidered with a snowscene, and a red silk tie, with holly. With that there's an exceptionally well-cut white shirt with the little Santa cufflinks Lucy gave me, and extremely tight shiny black trousers. All the better to seduce my Doctor with.

And yes, I have noticed him checking out my bum in these trousers. Several times. And once I've noticed him noticing, I make sure to give him ample opportunity. After all, if you've got it – flaunt it. And if I can coax my Doctor into bed by taunting him with my bum, why not? It's not like he's actually going to get it.

Well. I suppose if it was absolutely, definitely the only way he'd have sex with me, I might consider it. It wouldn't be the first time. Not quite.

At any rate, his interest is enough to get me wondering if I might actually get him there tonight. I haven't tried anything since that first time two weeks ago, because I was very sure he wouldn't put out. It was easy straight after de-aging him, he was so desperate and needy, so overwhelmed by the thought of connecting with another Time Lord again, so carried away by his memories – deliberately cultivated by yours truly, of course – of when we were young. But once he'd scratched that itch, there was no way he was going to be that easy again.

So I've been biding my time, flirting and tempting him whenever I can but not initiating anything more. Let him wait. Let his need grow again. Abstinence makes the dick grow fonder and all that.

And it's not like I've had to abstain too. I've got Lucy, and Jack, and anyone else I care to have. After all, who's going to say no to me?

Well, apart from my dear Doctor.

When the song ends, I put my arm round his waist and draw him towards the bar. "Come on, let's get a drink," I say genially, and again he doesn't protest. I get us a couple of the Christmas cocktails I had the barman invent specially for tonight – with extra alcohol in the Doctor's glass. I'm not above cheating just a little.

We sit at one of the little round tables I've had brought in to replace the massive conference table for the evening, and the Doctor swirls his very expensive antique-gold straw round in his drink and says, still a little bemused, "Sooooo. All those months ago when you said 'Are you asking me out on a date?'… You actually _wanted_ me to be asking you out on a date?"

"It was only _two_ months ago," I say pointedly.

And _duh_! I don’t say it, though.

Instead I lean in towards him and say, “Look, let’s just call a truce, eh? Just for tonight? Let's just forget we've tried to kill each other umpteen times and pretend we're still those two boys back on Gallifrey who actually got on with each other?"

He looks up at me from above his drink. "Gallifrey's gone."

"Maybe, but those boys are still here. Still you and me, Doctor. Despite everything, both of us are still here."

He purses his lips and doesn't answer, just stares past my shoulder at the dance floor. I wonder what he's looking at and turn in my seat to see.

It's Jack, of course. Captain Handsome, spinning and twirling my delightful Lucy to _Winter Wonderland_. I watch them dance – such an unlikely pairing, but somehow enchanting together – and find myself smiling fondly.

“Of course, you do realise you look like a snooker player in that get-up?” the Doctor asks me, bringing my attention back to him with a start.

“Mmm, I do have a bit of the Hendry flair, don’t I?” I murmur, preening a bit.

“Well, except that he wouldn’t be seen dead in that waistcoat.”

“Oh, you can’t exactly pass judgement on fashion!”

“At least my outfit isn’t tacky! And your tie really doesn’t go.”

I lift my eyebrows. “You don’t like the tie? Fine.” I tug at the knot to loosen it, feeling my lips twitch as the Doctor’s mouth falls open with shock that one casual remark from him has me removing the object of his dissatisfaction. I undo the knot and pull the tie out carefully from beneath my collar in one long slide, holding eye contact – the Doctor's eyes widen adorably as I put the tie away neatly into my pocket in case I need it later on. Then I flick open the top two buttons of my shirt (because honestly, a shirt just looks _wrong_ done all the way up with no tie) and watch the Doctor’s gaze shift to the skin that manoeuvre reveals. His tongue slithers out to wet his lips.

I smirk a little, and gesture to his glass, so far untouched. "Come on, drink up! Special Christmas cocktails, these are, designed just for me."

He frowns down at his, stirring again with his straw. "What's in it again?"

I roll my eyes. "Doctor, if I _wanted_ to poison you, I've had plenty of chances to do so!” Everything he eats comes from my kitchen. And yes, he does still get it in a doggy bowl. Watching him demean himself by eating with his hands from a bowl on the floor – whenever he gets hungry enough to give in and do it – isn't going to get old any time soon.

He huffs a bit, but once I make a show of drinking from my own glass he does eventually put the end of his straw into his mouth and suck. His eyes widen again and he looks up at me in surprise. "Oh, that's really good!" he says.

I smile. "It is good, isn't it? I'm lucky to have found that chap. Used to work at Claridge's."

"Is Claridge's still there?" he asks, looking troubled. "For that matter, is any of it still there, down on the surface?"

"Oh, yes, Claridge's is still there. I take Lucy there for dinner sometimes." I mock-frown. "Their cocktails aren't as good as they used to be, though – can't think why…"

Anger flares in the Doctor's eyes, as it always does when I remind him of what I've done to this little world he values so much. I wait for the cutting rebuke, but for once it doesn't come. Instead, in the true spirit of Christmas, he bites it back and stays silent, his jaw tight with emotion but not giving in to it. Oh, it's nice when he lets me win like that. I grin happily. I'm having a lot of fun today.

Not that I'm the only one. The party's getting going now, and my staff are starting to relax and enjoy themselves. Cheerful music and free booze can do a lot to soften people's feelings towards their boss, even when their boss is me.

Jack in particular is like a child in a sweet shop. He's laughing and joking with some of the off-duty soldiers, obviously telling some kind of outrageous story, and they're hanging on his every word. Even Lucy is doing more than just smiling politely – he's clearly keeping her well-entertained too, as ordered. Watching him, I begin to realise just how much Jack values contact with others, and exactly what I'm doing to him by keeping him in a cell on his own.

Not that that makes me feel _bad_ about keeping him in a cell on his own. Quite the reverse. I _am_ evil, after all.

The Doctor and I pass him on our way over to the food, the first time we've been anywhere near him this evening, and Jack looks me up and down, taking in my attire with a suggestiveness that only Jack could manage from that simple movement. “Nice pants, Master!” he chuckles, eyes dancing and one eyebrow raised high.

It takes me a moment of wondering how on earth Jack knows what pants I’m wearing before I realise he means my trousers. It takes me a further moment to process the fact that the man I’ve been torturing and killing and fucking rather nastily for two months has just complimented me on my arse. He’s a many-layered man, is Jack Harkness.

I look back at him, amused and letting him see it. "Thank you, Captain," I say smoothly. "And no, you're not getting in them."

"Never thought I would," he replies, with a cheeky grin, including the Doctor now in his suggestive look. "So… am I looking after your wife well enough?"

I glance over at Lucy, and she smiles dreamily at me from within the circle of Jack's arm, her eyes a little distant. "I'm having a lovely time, darling," she says contentedly. "Your Captain is a very dashing man."

Hmm. Perhaps a little too dashing. Still, I asked him to entertain her, after all. Can't really complain if he's doing what I asked.

I force myself to smile at Jack and say, "Apparently you are, Captain. Just make sure you remember where you are, and who you are – and who it is you're escorting."

Jack pretends to be offended. "Hey, I said I'd look after her! It's more than my life's worth… er…"

The Doctor chuckles, and I shoot him a disgusted look.

"Just watch it, Captain," I say coldly. "And remember that I don't entirely trust you."

Jack's smile fades and for the first time this evening his eyes are serious. "That's probably very sensible of you, Master," he says lightly.

The look in his eyes actually makes me shiver very slightly, because he's _threatening_ me. Veiled beneath humour and agreement, but the threat is still there.

Oh, he's going to pay for that tomorrow.

But for now, I'm determined not to let him get to me. "Prove me wrong, then, Captain," I say, frostily, and turn away, pulling the Doctor with me.

I expect the Doctor to say something about Jack, but he doesn't. Just heads for the food-laden table with the eagerness of a man who hasn't eaten nearly enough in the last two months. "My, you've got a good spread here!" he exclaims, piling things onto a plate. "Oooh, vol-au-vents. And those delicious little Marks and Spencer cheese and bacon things. And – oooooh, donuts!"

We get back to our table and I watch him start to stuff himself with a mixture of fondness and fastidious distaste. Fortunately, even hungry as he is, there's only so much food he can stuff into that skinny body, so the eating doesn't last too long. He can't even manage the donut he was exclaiming over, but insists on feeding it to me because the one bite he did manage tastes so good. So I eat it from his fingers, holding his eyes and making a big thing about _sucking_ the last bite out from between his fingers and then licking off all the remaining sugar. It seems to have quite an effect on us both.

I look up from finishing my drink to wash down all that sugar and find the Doctor still watching me with that intent gaze. Something inside me goes very still and attentive because he's bloody hot when he goes all dominant like that. "Come and dance," he says, and I'm somehow not quite as surprised at him suggesting it as I should be. It is a slow dance, mind, which doesn't seem to be as obnoxious to him as a fast one. I go with him and we start to move together, gently.

"It's surreal, isn't it?" I ask, laying my cheek briefly against his shoulder, feeling the slight coarseness of the fabric against my skin. "You and me, at a party together – on a _date_ – and Jack here too, enjoying himself."

"Very surreal," he says, somewhat absently. I lift my head to see what's caught his attention and discover without surprise that once again he's watching Jack dance nearby with Lucy. Well, it is rather lovely to watch. Jack is such a gentleman, and such a good dancer, holding my Lucy with tenderness (which must be at least partly faked, because he knows what she is, but it's very convincing), leading her, showing her off, making her look even more exquisite. Jack raises his head, aware of being watched, and flashes a knowing, rather smug, smile in our direction before bending his head again to Lucy's hair.

_Rocking Around The Christmas Tree_ comes on next and I keep the Doctor out on the dance floor despite his protests that he's really not a rock 'n' roll dancer. He's lying anyway, because he's quite a decent dancer, even if he doesn't like being led by me.

"I'm taller – I should be leading," he objects, when I try to twirl him under my arm. He makes a mess of it, even though his arms are certainly long enough to make the manoeuvre work. He staggers out of control at the end of the turn and tumbles halfway across the floor – right into Jack and Lucy. Jack automatically lets go of Lucy and comes heroically to the rescue, and the Doctor grabs onto his hunky, strong forearm and holds on for a long moment to get his balance. He must be gripping tight enough to hurt because Jack's eyes widen momentarily and his other hand goes out to the Doctor's other shoulder to steady him further.

I sigh and cross over to them, wishing the Doctor wouldn't play the gangly, clumsy fool, because I _know_ he's more graceful than that. And it's not going to get him out of dancing. I'll just have to lead even more strongly.

"Come on, let's try that again," I murmur, my hand pressing on his shoulder-blade, drawing him away. No, I'm not jealous. I just want my Doctor to myself. Seeing him with Jack, even for a moment, stirs feelings of possessiveness I don't want to admit to.

OK. I am jealous. But why shouldn't I be? I am the Master here. No-one should have eyes for anyone but me.

Especially my Doctor.

* * *

The evening passes in a swirl of enjoyment. Several drinks, and a couple more fast dances later, we're on the floor again, swaying slowly to _Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas_. The Doctor's begun to relax at last and his dancing has improved greatly because of it. He's even letting me lead without fighting me. I hold him close, enjoying this peaceful moment, and smile against his cheek.

He smiles back, and says wistfully, "It's nice to see you happy." Which is a pretty staggering thing for your arch-nemesis to say to you – because with one notable exception what makes him happy and what makes me happy are so very much not the same – and it proves once and for all that he's drunk as hell.

"'S nice to see you happy too," I smile back, because it is. It's fun teasing him and taunting him and wondering what biting come-back he'll find, but the more time I spend with him, the more I miss how we used to be. Way back on Gallifrey, when the banter was interspersed with more… physical pastimes. I slide my hands downwards and press his slim body against me, remembering the boy he was then, and he shifts a little so his legs are straddling one of mine, and I catch my breath at such intimate contact, especially initiated by _him_. I stroke the short hair on the back of his neck and murmur, "Why, Doctor, I do think you're a little drunk!"

"No more 'n you," he says, slurring a little and rubbing against me like a long, lean cat.

I'm about to deny it, but the way my mind's rambling and my body's trying to fuck him through his clothes, he's probably right. I almost squeal when that long, agile tongue of his licks my neck, all the way from my collar to the edge of the hair behind my ear. "You're _definitely_ more drunk than I am!" I state, as soon as I can speak again. "Don't try to tell me you'd do _that_ sober!"

He chuckles, low and erotic, in my ear. "I might. Given the right motivation."

"Oh really?" I slide a hand up and down his back and he moulds himself to me even more closely. My mind fills with drums as my arousal grows stronger. I have to concentrate hard to stop myself trying tear off his clothes and shag him right here, right now. Instead, I do my best to continue the sultry, provocative mood we've got going. "And what might that be?"

“Hmm?” He’s nuzzling into the crook of my neck now, almost tickling.

It takes me a moment to remember what it was I was asking. “What’s the right motivation?” I repeat patiently.

“For what?” Oh yes, definitely drunk.

I give up. “Oh, who cares? Look. I’m drunk, you’re drunk, we’re humping each other here in the middle of the dance floor… Let’s get out of here!”

For a long moment, he doesn’t move and I begin to think he’s too drunk to be able to get up to anything. Then he lifts his head finally from my shoulder and grins – and it’s the grin of that boy I used to know. The grin that meant he was up to mischief. “Yeah, let’s!” he says, and I grin back as his enthusiasm infects me too.

“All right then!” I laugh and grab the Doctor’s hand and lead him towards the door, weaving between the dancers like a couple of kids.

I just take the time to instruct one of the guards at the door to keep a close eye on Jack, and to blow a kiss to Lucy who's watching us with a far-away smile, and then I'm dragging the Doctor out into the lift.

We stagger down the lower halls, arms round each other to help us keep upright. Definitely drunk, both of us. I really didn’t mean to get completely plastered. I only meant to get the Doctor completely plastered. How much _have_ I had to drink? Or maybe it's not just the drink. Maybe it’s having the Doctor here, not pushing me away, seeming to like me, that’s made me so high. Definitely all his fault.

"D'you actually remember where this room is?" the Doctor asks me, interrupting my thoughts, gazing blurrily at all the doors as we pass them.

"'Course I do. It's… not far."

"Good. 'Cos we need a room. Or we need to _get_ a room… is that the phrase-"

"Oh, are you _ever_ going to have an incarnation who doesn't _talk_ all the time?" I exclaim. He draws breath to retort and I push him against the wall and kiss him silent. Well, not silent, but at least there are no more infuriating words, just moans and whimpers, and breathless little gasps. His fingers entwine with mine, holding our hands down at our sides. Somehow not being able to touch him with my hands and not having his arms around me makes the kiss even more erotic. I press against him with my body, getting as close as I can, standing slightly on tiptoe to reach him properly, to press his head back against the wall as well so that I'm completely in charge. For the moment, anyway.

After a very long time, the Doctor shifts a bit, pushing against me, and I reluctantly break off the kiss. We stand there panting, staring at each other, he apparently as taken aback by the strength of my need as I am by his.

"Room?" he asks, with uncharacteristic succinctness.

"Room," I agree, with a bright grin that he echoes back at me. I take a deep breath and look around to get my bearings. Oh, it's just down _that_ way. "C'm on. 'S not far."

His room is ready for us, of course: low lighting, champagne and roses, just as it was before. This time, we actually open the champagne. I'm all for going straight to bed, but the Doctor insists on popping the cork and pouring bubbles into the two tall glasses. He hands one to me, and meets my eyes, solemn and flirty both at once. We toast each other silently, and drink.

* * *

We eventually make it onto the bed. We kiss for a long time, at first rolling over and fighting for dominance, pinning each other down, pushing and bucking and humping, but gradually getting a little less urgent, a little calmer and more deliberate, using our knowledge of each other to give pleasure, and our knowledge of our own bodies to surprise, because neither of us knows the other's current body very well, yet.

Time ebbs and slows. We're lying unmoving together, on our sides, still kissing. The Doctor's hand is stroking my hair and down the back of my neck, making me shiver and press against him. My hand is rubbing the small of his back, pressing him against me, and making him shiver when I move it down to his arse. I can feel him in my head, too, just his presence, nothing scary or intrusive, just there. Soothing me, arousing me, wanting me.

* * *

I think I've lost some time somewhere. I'm lying naked on the bed with my hands tied together above my head with what feels like a tie, and the Doctor is kneeling between my legs looking down at me with an unfathomable expression. The tie must be my own, because he's still fully dressed, apart from his shoes. His eyes come up to meet mine and he smiles, gently, warmly, and the part of me that was starting to panic at finding myself in this position relaxes instinctively. Because while I don't exactly _trust_ the Doctor, I do _know_ him. And I've seen that look before.

He's going to suck my cock.

And while he's never been the most proficient person I've ever known at that, _this_ regeneration has a superbly talented mouth. I've been watching that mouth, with its mobile lips and agile tongue, for months now and imagining it going to work on my cock. I moan gently and tilt my hips, just a little, to encourage him. And his smile grows as he bends, plants his hands beside my hips, and looks down. Then looks back up at me as he finally engulfs my cock.

He's learnt a lot from Jack. In his previous body, of course, because he hasn't had a chance yet this time round, but definitely off Jack. There are little tricks and moves I recognise, subtly different because he's not Jack and he's put his own twist on them, but… oh, so much more skill than I've ever known from him. And still with all that wonderful, sloppy, open-mouthed enthusiasm I used to love about him.

And – oh – fingers too. Fingers tracing down the insides of my thighs, fingers cupping and fondling my balls… slick fingers moving back towards my arse. Long, slim fingers penetrating me, swirling and twirling and stretching and fucking me, until suddenly I'm coming, with a rush and a woosh, out of nowhere, coming into his mouth and down his throat and around his fingers, coming till I've got nothing left, wrung out and empty and dry.

* * *

I've lost more time.

I'm on my front, hands still bound to the top of the bed, naked and cold and alone. I shiver, and shift a bit, raising my head and looking round as far as I can on both sides, but I can't see him. Can't feel him. Anxiety curls in the base of my stomach. "Doctor?" I call out, but it's little more than a whisper.

Nothing. My arse is so exposed it's tingling, half-expecting… something. Goose pimples trail up my spine. "Doctor?"

It's a bit louder this time, and a bit more panicky. Where is he? He wouldn't just… go? Would he?

On the other hand, it's not like he's actually chained up in here like he was last time. And there weren't any guards around down here to stop him leaving the room if he tried. And somehow I'm the one who's tied up here. Shit. How did I let _this_ happen?

I'm about to shift onto my back so I can at least see the room properly when suddenly he's there. "Sorry 'bout that," he says chirpily, and I almost collapse in relief. Almost.

"Where've you been?" I ask grouchily, straining round to see him.

"Had to go to the bathroom. Sorry for leaving you there like that!" He's at the foot of the bed and I can't see him very clearly without killing my neck, but I can make out enough to see he's still clothed. Mussed and rumpled but still clothed.

I frown. "'ve you come yet?"

"No…" He comes round the side of the bed, trailing one thin finger up my leg, over my arse and up my spine. As he comes into view properly I can see he's smiling, rather lopsidedly. He quirks an eyebrow. "D'you want to do something about that?"

I think about that, blearily. "Would it involve moving?"

"Doesn't have to," he says archly. Doesn't spell it out any more than that, because I know what he's suggesting. A quiver of excitement runs through me at the idea of letting him fuck me. Not something we've done at all often, but enough for me to know that it can be incredible, even if I'd never, ever admit it to him. And he's had Jack to practice on in the meantime. Arousal starts to build again.

"All right," I say, as casually as I can, but it doesn't sound casual, even to me. Who knows what it sounds like to him, when he can get into my head too.

His hand strokes down my flank. "Thank you," he whispers, almost reverently, moving back down the bed and out of sight. I drop my head to the pillows because I can't hold it up any longer, and hear him moving about, getting ready. My arse is tingling again.

And then he's there, and then he's in me, and it's the most exquisite thing I've ever felt. It hurts, a bit, because – well – I'm a virgin too in this body, but it's the right kind of pain and the Doctor was telling the truth when he said he wasn't the only one who likes a bit of pain. The pain and the pleasure combine into a blur of _sensation_, and though I was sure I wouldn't be able to come again after the intensity of the last climax, I can and I do, along with the Doctor, both of us panting and wailing and climbing upwards, ever upwards, until everything shatters and we collapse together and time goes away again.

* * *

It's days before I realise I have no idea how long I was out of it, no idea how long the Doctor left me alone. No idea what he was up to. Whether he _was_ just in the bathroom, or whether it was something more sinister.

When I do find out, ten months down the line, it fucking kills me.


	10. Part 9 - Blind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is kinky threesome sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](https://unfeathered.livejournal.com/58381.html) on 11 December 2007 for becky_writing's [Guilty Pleasures Fest](http://becky-writing.livejournal.com/56076.html). My guilty pleasures were unashamed non-con (with D/s overtones), bondage, sensory deprivation, breathplay and telepathy. Unbeta'd because this one was for me and very, very self-indulgent and I kind of felt like it just needed to come totally from me.
> 
> It is part of the Master Plan story, but it's from Jack's POV and is designed to work as a stand-alone if desired (as long as you know the Master has de-aged the Doctor).

Jack walks between his guards along the lower corridors of the _Valiant_. He's handcuffed and blindfolded. He's also naked and clean and prepared for getting fucked. Out of all of that, it's the blindfold that bothers him the most. Mainly because it's really not helping him stop worrying about where he's being taken. The Master's always come to him before – except that one time on the bridge, but there was a reason for that. He supposes there's a reason for this too, but he doesn't know what. What's he being taken _to_?

A door opens and he's pushed through it, not roughly but hard enough that he stumbles over the threshold and finds himself alone with the door closing quietly behind him. He takes a moment to find his balance, toes curling deep into soft, luxurious carpet, then breathes deeply and focuses on listening.

Someone over _there_, ahead and to his left. And straight ahead of him, there's someone else – on a bed. It's creaking a little as they move.

So… the Master, obviously. And… presumably either Lucy or the Doctor. After the Christmas party, Jack's money’s on the Doctor. He sniffs again, but he's not familiar enough with this version of the Doctor to be able to tell for sure. It's definitely male, though, which makes it a pretty sure bet.

"Over here, please, Jack," the Master says, over to his left, and Jack turns towards him and obediently starts to walk. It's hard, blindfolded, each step a step into the unknown and he has to really concentrate. The Master guides him with sound – fabric rustling, a zipper being pulled down, more rustling and then the very faint noise of skin on skin – and finally tells him to stop. Jack stops, and sinks automatically to his knees.

There's a tiny, sharp intake of breath from the person on the bed. Oh, yeah, it's the Doctor. Jack waits for the protest, but it doesn't come, which worries him a little. But he doesn't have time to think about that too much before he feels the weight of a hand on his head. It strokes the hair that's not pulled flat under the strap of the blindfold – once, twice – before coming to rest at the back of his head. It applies gentle pressure, and Jack rocks forward, mouth opening.

The hand stays there while he sucks, giving him no leeway, and he's grateful. It's nice to be able to pretend that he's being coerced into this, that he's not in fact a pathetic slut who'll get hard and needy just from the thought of being mastered like this, let alone the fact of it. Occasionally, the Master doesn't let him pretend; makes him give rather than take, makes him really use all those skills he's picked up over the years. But mostly, it's like this. The Master does like to be in charge.

It's not long before he's being pressed closer and the Master starts to fuck his mouth. Jack shifts his weight so he can take the force of the thrusts and opens his throat so he can take the Master's cock. He tries very hard to ignore the fact that the whole thing – kneeling naked and chained with the Master's hand on the back of his head and the Master's cock fucking his throat – has got him hard and flushed and panting with arousal.

Not that it would be news to the Doctor, who must have a pretty good idea what the Master does to him in private, and who knows only too well how Jack reacts to being dominated. Not forgetting that time on the bridge when he got to see it at first hand.

It's certainly ironic. All that time waiting for the Doctor to come back into his life, and when he does, Jack ends up being dominated by his arch-enemy instead.

Or perhaps by both of them, today. The Doctor's on his way over.

The Master stills in Jack's mouth and he takes advantage of the chance to breathe properly. "He's perfect, isn't he, Doctor? Isn't he perfect?"

"'Course he is – I knew that long before you did," the Doctor says casually, and Jack stiffens instinctively as he feels the Doctor come to rest behind him – bare feet just brushing against his, legs against his back, cock bobbing against his hair. Bare, cool skin he hasn't felt in so very long. The Time Lords shift their weight and lean towards each other above his head. Jack hears them kissing, and shivers. He starts to wonder just how much of the Doctor's ease with the Master is acting and how much is genuine. He's not sure he could cope with the Doctor abandoning him again, not for the Master.

The Master seems to feel the shiver because he chuckles into the Doctor's mouth and his hand starts to stroke Jack's hair again. It's not that that makes Jack relax, though. It's feeling the Doctor's hand on his shoulder and the faint brush of the Doctor's mind against his. Too faint for actual words, just a gentle, calming presence, asking him to trust the Doctor. There's no reaction from the Master. Jack's fairly sure the Master can't get into his head, any more than Tosh could with that pendant. He'd be able to feel him, just as he can feel the Doctor now, soothing and reassuring him.

Jack relaxes. He probably _shouldn't_ trust the Doctor so instinctively, not after the way he's been treated, but he does. He starts to suck again – hard – and gets a gratifying gasp from the Master. He smiles to himself. He might be the one who's naked and chained and on his knees, but he's not without power. However much he might like to pretend he's being forced into this – to ease his guilt about submitting to a mass-murdering megalomaniac – he knows he has a choice. It may not be much of a choice, but it's important and, in a way, comforting too. Because while he's doing this of his own free will, that means he still _has_ free will, that the Master hasn't taken that away from him. And while he still has free will, the Master hasn't won.

And to be perfectly honest, he'd rather have it like this than with real coercion. He enjoys sex. If he's going to play 'distract the Master', he'd rather do this than be killed or tortured any day.

"Cocky little bugger, aren't you?" the Master murmurs above him, and Jack freezes, suddenly not so sure the Master can't read his mind. Then he realises it was his grin around the cock in his mouth that gave him away. The grin's gone now. The hand on his hair slips down to grip the back of his neck, fingers and thumb digging in hard behind his ears and yanking upwards so he's forced to scramble up to his feet. "Bed," the Master says tersely, turning him round and propelling him forwards with that same hand. Jack trips on the deep carpet and the fingers dig in again, making him squirm but holding him up as he staggers forward again. His shins hit the hard metal frame of the bed and he yelps and stops, but the hand keeps moving, urging him up onto the bed as the Master moves round beside him. Jack clambers up onto the bed – not the most graceful ascent he's ever made, without the use of either his arms or his eyes, but he's just trying to keep those sharp fingers out of those tender spots that make him cringe. He can feel the Master's weight come down on the bed beside him and the hand tips him forwards until he's face down on the silk sheets, still on his knees with his ass in the air. Jack shifts his legs apart for balance and manages to turn his head to the side a little to allow himself to breathe. The hand stays right where it is on the back of his neck, holding him down.

"Do you want to do it or shall I?" the Master asks conversationally, head turned away from Jack, towards the Doctor.

"Do what?" The Doctor sounds understandably wary.

"Whatever you want. I expect you'd like to fuck him, wouldn't you? You must've been thinking about fucking him for months. Wondering how different it'll be with your new body. Especially now that he's got the Vortex inside him."

Jack's never thought of it like that, though he supposes it makes sense, if it was the Time Vortex from the TARDIS that Rose used to bring him back to life. He shivers again and feels the hand on his neck tighten a fraction.

He can hear the Doctor moving closer, slowly but steadily. "And what would you be doing while I did that?"

"Watching… Watching you fuck your old friend, your faithful lieutenant, your darling Captain. What a picture – such beauty! Consider it my Valentine's gift to you. Plus I'm sure I could help things along a bit too."

The Doctor's a lot nearer now. "All right," he says, still slow, still cautious. "Why not?"

Jack tenses, hardly believing his ears. Whatever he'd expected when he was preparing himself, it most certainly wasn't getting fucked by the Doctor, for the first time in a hundred and forty years, for the first time with the Doctor in this body, _in front of the Master_. He's not sure how either of them are going to be able to handle that. He's aware that the Doctor's probably reckoning that at least if _he's_ the one to fuck Jack, he'll be the one in control. Which is reasonable, but it doesn't make it any easier for Jack. He's gotten used to the Master fucking him. He's most certainly not used to the Doctor.

And God, he didn't want their reunion to be like this.

But then, of course, he's not getting a choice.

"All right then!" the Master says delightedly, and his hand moves at last – to stroke the nape of Jack's neck in a way that's probably supposed to be soothing but instead just makes the hairs stand up. When at last the hand lifts, the Master moving away slightly, Jack swallows hard and tries to prepare himself mentally for what's to come.

"Don't try any funny business, though," the Master warns, as Jack feels and hears the Doctor climb up onto the bed behind him.

"Funny business?" The Doctor's tone is blank – deliberately blank, Jack's sure.

Unfortunately, the Master knows the Doctor even better than Jack does. He keeps forgetting that. "Telepathy," the Master says wearily. "I don't want the two of you plotting nefarious little plans while you're fucking for my entertainment. So don't try it. You know I'll know if you do."

There's a tiny pause. "All right," the Doctor says again, a trifle coldly. Jack starts as cool fingers stroke down the outside of his thigh, and he tries to relax, tries to tell himself it's just the Doctor and he's felt the Doctor before – but this isn't the Doctor he used to know and the touch isn't familiar and comforting as it's supposed to be.

"Are you ready, Jack?" the Doctor asks him, concern in his tone.

Ridiculously, the concern brings Jack the closest he's come yet to breaking down. He hadn't expected this – physical contact with the Doctor, and such intimate contact at that. He's not prepared. He can't just go from being the Master's toy to the Doctor's lover like this. He can't–

"Captain?" the Master prompts snidely, and that gives Jack the jolt he needs.

He shifts again, trying to take more of his weight onto his shoulder to release the strain on his neck, then takes as deep a breath as he can with his nose half-buried in the bedding and wills himself to relax. "Yes, Sir," he says, answering the Doctor, not the Master.

He hears the Master stir, not liking that, but he put the Doctor in charge, after all. He feels a waft of air as the Master gestures at the Doctor. "Go on then. Entertain me."

Jack can only imagine the look the Doctor replies with, but he does get moving. He starts to stroke Jack again – back and ass and thighs and cock – until Jack's skin is tingling and he's breathing hard and aching for more. He moans, just a little, which gets him a chuckle from the Master that makes his skin crawl. Then bony fingers spread him wide and Jack bites his lip and does his utmost not to clench up in fear of the unknown.

He wasn't prepared for this physically any more than mentally. The Master isn't huge and he likes it tight, so Jack's finally stopped bothering with butt plugs and preparing himself thoroughly. But if this version of the Doctor is anything like his predecessor, he's going to wish he'd been a bit more comprehensive.

“It’s all right, Jack, I’ve got you,” the Doctor says gently, pressing forward and Jack shoves his apprehension and personal issues aside and concentrates on the physical. There'll be time later to deal with the emotional.

It hurts, a little, but it's not as bad as he expected. And even the pain doesn't lessen his arousal. It just combines with the ache in his shoulders and neck, the strain in the muscles of his thighs and stomach, and the hurt of the unyielding metal cuffs against his wrists to make the pleasure he’s receiving even more intense.

The Doctor pauses, fully inside him, and Jack lets out a long, shuddery breath. His hands slide up his sweat-slicked back, jolting his shoulders, and he bites off a cry of pain. The Doctor strokes down his side, trembling slightly, and Jack realises belatedly that he isn't the only one for whom this is a big deal.

"Oh, that's beautiful," the Master says gleefully, and Jack starts. For a moment, he'd forgotten they weren't alone. "The two of you – so much prettiness. And so intimate. Oh, it's lovely."

The Doctor grunts and finally starts to move, and Jack bites his lip at the intensity of the sensation. The way the Doctor's fingers are digging into his hips demonstrates that he’s finding it pretty intense too.

"Oh, but it's good, isn't it, Doctor?" the Master croons. "Fucking him? You can feel the Vortex, can't you? Isn't it amazing?"

"Yeah," the Doctor breathes, pausing again. Jack wants more than anything to be able to see his face. It's wrong that he should have to endure something so intimate without being able to communicate with the Doctor.

"So you’re over all that stuff about _It's not easy, just looking at you, Jack, ’cos you're wrong_…?" the Master drawls, and Jack clenches his teeth against the flood of hatred that suddenly flows through him, because that isn’t the Master’s question to ask. It’s his.

“Oh, yeah, have been for a long time,” the Doctor says casually, but he’s stroking Jack’s back again soothingly. At the same time, Jack becomes aware of a faint presence in his mind, steadying and calming him. No words, and certainly no nefarious plans – but then, it's not like the Doctor _needs_ to talk to Jack – he already knows all he needs to of the Doctor's plans. And perhaps real communication, with words, would be more discernable to the Master. Whatever the reason, the gentle presence is enough to help calm Jack. It's certainly a lot more familiar and reassuring than the body that's fucking him.

“Well, that didn’t take long, then, did it?” the Master teases, but it’s not light – there’s a real sting in the words. Jack cringes and starts to wish he’d made sure the Doctor had turned off the intercom while they had that rather personal conversation back on Malcassairo. He knew that Martha and Professor Yana and poor Chantho had been able to hear them, but he's never thought beyond that. Too much else has happened. Now he realises just how much ammunition they’ve given the Master to taunt them with.

"Oh, just shut up and let me enjoy myself, will you?" the Doctor says irritably, and the Master chuckles.

"Oh, all right, if you insist! As long as I'm allowed to join in, too."

"What are you going to do?" The Doctor's tone is as wary as Jack feels.

"Well, I thought I might do…" The bed rocks as the Master changes position, and Jack yelps as fingers grip his hair and use it to lift his head from the mattress, causing pain to strike through his sore shoulders. Air moves in front of his face and there's the sound of something being plumped down. "…This." And Jack's shoved down again into the pillow that's been placed beneath his face.

It takes a moment for realisation to sink in, then fear slams through his body. Automatically, he tries to draw in breath to yell and fight, but the tiny amount he gets through the pillow isn’t enough. He fights anyway, futilely.

The Doctor’s presence floods his mind, soothing, reassuring, and somewhere far away beyond the pounding in his ears, he hears the Doctor say, “Oh no. No. You’re not going to…?”

“Oh, I’ll try not to kill him, if you’re feeling squeamish,” the Master replies, all his weight on the hand holding Jack down. “But just feel the adrenalin, Doctor! Isn’t it amazing? And the drums? Can you feel the drums?”

The Doctor doesn’t answer, just grunts and starts to fuck Jack hard and fast, rocking him again and again into the pillow. Jack’s grateful for the brutality. He needs violence, to counteract the panic surging through him as he pushes up desperately against the Master’s hand. To give him something to anchor him against the way his body’s hurting and his lungs are burning. To give him something good to feel. Because it is good. It's more than good. His cock’s painting his stomach with pre-come with every thrust.

At this point, he realises belatedly, the Doctor and the Master are just about equally knowledgeable about what will get him off. With the two of them working on him together, he doesn’t stand a chance.

His lungs feel like they’re bursting by the time he’s let up. He gasps in air urgently, grateful for the Doctor stilling so he can concentrate on breathing while he’s allowed. He struggles helplessly when the Master pushes him down again. The Doctor starts to move again and Jack’s world narrows to just two things: the cock deep inside him and the fight for air.

He surfaces just enough to hear the vicious words whispered in his ear.

“You don’t breathe again till you come.”

Terror lurches through him. Stupid, pointless terror, because he knows if he dies he’ll come back, but he can’t help it. His instinct is not to die.

For a long moment, the fear is so overwhelming that it drowns out arousal and Jack fears that he won’t be able to come before he passes out. Then the Doctor changes his angle and there’s a hand on his cock too, and a surge of pleasure chases the fear. He rocks with the Doctor's thrusts, lungs heaving, body hurting, blood pulsing in his ears, and, finally, he comes, with a force that’s almost painful.

Vaguely, he’s aware of the grip on his hair turning his head to the side so that he can breathe and he gasps air painfully, feeling like he’s never going to be able to get enough. His thigh muscles are shaking with the strain of holding himself up, until finally he feels the Doctor slip out of him and he collapses onto his front.

After a moment, the bed sways sickeningly as the Doctor crawls over his leg and round to the side of him that isn’t occupied by the Master. The Master’s fingers finally uncurl from his hair, and a gentler hand replaces them, stroking him – once, twice – before undoing the strap of the blindfold so that the cloth falls away from his face. Jack doesn’t open his eyes. He’ll be looking at the Doctor if he does, and he’s not ready.

Other hands – the Master’s – slide a key into his handcuffs and a moment later they fall away too. His arms fall to the bed at his sides, jarring his shoulders horribly. The most he can manage in protest is a whimper, but even that brings the Doctor leaning over him, a tentative hand stroking down his back. "Jack? Are you…? What's wrong?"

And Jack laughs – though it sounds like a sob, even to him – because the Doctor really doesn't know what he's done, by taking the Master's place and giving Jack the pain and the pleasure he needed to reach that high. He's stripped away Jack's defences, the layer of armour that was letting him get through this without giving up. Lying here with the Doctor petting him, concerned and oblivious, Jack's never felt so open and defenceless.

Slowly, moving in tiny degrees to minimise the pain, he gets his hands under his chest and lifts himself up enough to turn his head. The effort makes him sweat and shake. He rests a second, then finally opens his eyes and looks at the Master.

He can't see anything at first – the room's not brightly lit, but it's enough to make his eyes water at the contrast to the darkness he's been in. When his vision does eventually clear, he sees exactly what he expected to see: the Master, smirking.

"Oh, that really was lovely. Such a beautiful display of trust and intimacy. Even if it was slightly misplaced trust, eh? You thought he’d look after you, didn’t you, Jack? Well, he did look after you. But the thing is, who’s going to look after you when he’s gone? Oh yes. That’d be me.”

Jack closes his eyes again to shut out the sight of the Master’s triumphant grin. He’s exhausted and exposed and he can’t take it. He feels himself start to tremble and he lays his head down again, facing the Doctor and trying to find enough composure to re-open his eyes.

When he does, it’s to a Doctor who looks more miserable than Jack’s ever seen him. “I’m so sorry, Jack,” he says helplessly, so wretched he’s not even trying to touch Jack now. “I thought I was helping, by giving you something to enjoy. I didn’t realise it would do this to you. I’m sorry.”

Jack wants to answer, to reassure him that he’ll be all right, even though he’d be lying. But he can’t find the strength. He’s lying there, stripped bare and oh so horribly vulnerable and he can’t be the strong one any more. And it _was_ wonderful to connect with someone – with the _Doctor_ – even if just for a while. But now it’s gone, he feels even more alone than he was before.

And then something shifts in his head and he realises that he’s not alone. The Doctor’s still there, in his mind. He’s not touching him physically, but he’s still there. _It’s all right, Jack, I’ve still got you,_ the words come into his head, strong and comforting, though the Doctor’s expression doesn’t change. Jack waits for a reaction from the Master, but there’s none. _I needed the deep physical contact, and your orgasm, to strengthen the connection, but I’m with you now, and I’m not going anywhere._

Jack exhales slowly. He can hardly believe what he’s hearing, and he’s too exhausted to try to form words, but he manages a tiny smile as he looks up at the Doctor. The Doctor looks back at him, externally still miserable, but the voice in Jack’s head is like a caress, and strong arms around him.

_We’ll have to be careful, Jack, but… you won’t have to bear this alone any more. It’s all right now. I’ve got you._


	11. Part 9a - Linked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Doctor and the Master talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](https://unfeathered.livejournal.com/103066.html) on 23 May 2008 for the [Timestamp Meme](http://unfeathered.livejournal.com/101934.html), where [dune_drd](https://dune_drd.livejournal.com) requested _Two hours after [Blind](http://unfeathered.livejournal.com/58381.html)_. Unbeta'd.

"That was cruel," the Doctor says harshly from the bed, accusatory eyes on the Master's face.

The Master's nearby, just finishing getting undressed. He rolls his eyes as he stalks back to the bed and settles himself elegantly against the pillows. "Of course it was. Who do you think I am, Mother Theresa?"

"No. But I didn't think you'd stoop so low as to use _me_ like that. It's beneath you, Master."

He's not quite as furious and hurting as he's making himself sound. Because he knew full well what the Master wanted him to do and he let himself be goaded into it because it was the first chance he'd been given that might enable him to make a link with Jack, to stop Jack being so completely and utterly _alone_.

The anger's not entirely faked, though. He's still hating himself for what he had to do to Jack in order to get the closeness, the cover, necessary to make that link.

The link's still there, even with Jack now back in his cell goodness knows how far away. But he's more or less shut down the connection for the moment. He doesn't want Jack to have to be privy to this little scene.

The Master taps his fingers impatiently on the mattress. "I let you both sleep it off afterwards, didn't I? I let you cuddle and comfort your little lost puppy. I even cuddled him along with you. What more do you want from me?"

_A bit of respect would be nice_, the Doctor thinks bitterly, but he bites his tongue and doesn't say it out loud. Not for the first time, he's sourly grateful for the fact that the Master's psychic abilities are so impaired by the drums this regeneration. If the Master had any _idea_ what goes on in his head on a regular basis, how much _acting_ he does…

He forces himself to lower his eyes. "Nothing, Master," he says, pushing the seething resentment back down inside him and hoping Jack can't feel it. Though he doesn't think he will. He can feel Jack finally sinking towards sleep.

Best thing for him, poor man.

"Good," purrs the Master. His hand comes out to stroke the Doctor's hair and down to the back of his neck, and the Doctor's eyes close in a mixture of reluctant arousal and resignation as he's guided gently downwards towards the Master's cock.

"Such a good, obedient Doctor," the Master murmurs, caressing the nape of the Doctor's neck, and he shivers, loathing himself, loathing the Master, loathing the circumstances that have brought him here, to this, where he's reduced to accepting this parody of affection from someone who's a pale imitation of the man he used to know, used to love.

Because, after all's said and done, it's better than nothing. Even this, scarred and painful and twisted as it is, is better than the alternative. It's better than being alone.


	12. Part 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Master gets a rude awakening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](https://unfeathered.livejournal.com/81045.html) on 17 March 2008 and beta'd by [mad_jaks](https://mad_jaks.livejournal.com) and [jadesfire](https://jadesfire.livejournal.com)

Early morning. I lie on my back, sleepy and warm with the Doctor close beside me, not wrapped around me as he often is but on his back too, head nudging my shoulder, ankle hooked over mine, arm pressed against my side. Comfortable, undemanding contact, both of us relaxed and at ease with each other. It reminds me of how we used to be, when we were young. Schoolboys, skipping class for far more interesting pursuits and afterwards, lying together, sleepy and sated, at one with each other and the world.

"Do you remember when we were boys, at school?" he murmurs, and I jump, because it's like he's read my thoughts. Without looking, I can _hear_ his lips curling in an amused smile, _see_ his eyes, lazy and hooded. He continues idly, "Do you remember the first time we skipped class? Well, the first time _you_ skipped class. I did it all the time. Do you remember how I persuaded you to do it? What it was I used to lure the class swot away from class?"

I feel him shift minutely and I finally turn my head to see the smug grin on his face. I give him a slightly lopsided smile of my own. "Yeah. I remember."

And as I remember, I wonder if he's doing the same thing now. Using sex to disarm me, persuade me, charm me. If perhaps this wonderful, comfortable dynamic I've woken to this morning is actually just a charade.

His eyes are dancing up at me, mischievous and challenging. I shrug away the doubts and give in to the challenge, leaning over to kiss the smugness out of him. He never can stay smug long when I'm snogging him like this. Soon he's breathless and gasping with not a trace of smugness remaining.

I pull back and look at him. Really look at him, because the thought's there now, and it's something I've been trying not to think about because…

Something's different. I don't know what, though, and it's bugging me. It's like a little fly buzzing around in my brain, trying to find a way out.

Something's… off. Something about both the Doctor and Jack. I don't know quite when I first noticed. I don't know when it first happened. But at some point in the couple of months since that delightful reunion between the two of them with me looking on, something's changed.

It wasn't their reunion shag that did it, I'm sure of that. They were both deliciously miserable after that, for a long time. But _now_ – I don't know. They both seem… less worried.

And them being less worried makes me more worried. Of course it does. It makes me wonder what the hell they're up to. Not to mention how on earth they could be up to anything at all.

He's watching me languidly, presumably curious as to the reason for my scrutiny.

"You seem happy," I remark softly, because it's nice anyway, to see him without that haunted look in his eyes.

He lifts his eyebrows. "Do I?" He smiles. "Maybe I am."

I can't help but smile back. I give a little sigh, and rub my hand up and down his arm. "I'm glad," I say simply.

Even though something inside me has slipped. Something inside me is screaming that he's hiding something and we're back to being enemies again because he's got that look about him and I know what that look means. It means he's _up to something_.

* * *

As my sense of unease grows, I find myself turning more and more to Lucy, whom I can trust, spending time with her again properly for the first time in months. I'd forgotten how good she is to talk to, how much she understands, how wonderful it is to have – well – a _companion_.

And it's not just talking, of course. There's more to my Lucy than that. Her cold beauty and long, elegant limbs, her talented fingers and mouth, and her unusually inventive mind. I spend time rediscovering her, appreciating her, worshipping her. My loyal, loving wife. At least I can be sure that _she's_ not plotting against me.

We talk a lot about how to find out what the Doctor and Jack are up to. And in the end, we decide to go with the element of surprise. I send Lucy in to see what she can get out of Jack. He won't exactly be an easy nut to crack, but he's got to be easier than the Doctor. And Lucy's been hinting more and more lately that she'd like a chance to… play with Jack. He fascinates her like he fascinates me. Not as much, because she's not a Time Lord and she can't feel the Vortex within him, or the drums. But the idea of someone who can be killed over and over in so many different ways and always come back… Oh yes, she wants to play with that.

So I let her.

I don't really expect her to get anything out of him – he's far too experienced at withstanding interrogation to succumb to her amateur, if inventive, tortures. And he doesn't. But it does make very pretty viewing. She kills him a total of nine times, all of which I can catalogue for my comparative death studies, and I watch from my comfortable chair in the CCTV control room with a soundtrack provided by the drums in my head, fascinated and entranced by this beautiful woman who's fitted into my world so much better than I could ever have expected any human to.

The last time, after finally giving up on making him talk, she doesn't kill him but leaves him bloody and torn on the floor for me to gloat over. And gloat I do. There's so much _mess_, bits of Jack all over the room, ten times messier than anything I've ever done to him myself, because mess just isn't my thing. That doesn't mean I can't appreciate, though. Even better if someone else does it; then I can enjoy the results without having to get mucky myself.

The room's going to need quite a clear-up once I'm gone.

I kiss Lucy hard, pressing her against me, the red blood on her red dress soaking into my suit. Then I send her out and shut the door behind her, and gaze down at the Captain as he lies, curled and naked and shivering, in the middle of his cell. I step carefully between the pools of blood and globs of flesh until I'm standing over him. I wait, silently, for him to acknowledge my presence. I'm not expecting a kneel or anything, not in the state he's in – gashed and gouged and stuck with skewers – but some sort of acknowledgement is required.

It takes several minutes, but I don't give up my expectations. And eventually he moves, just slightly: he draws in an uneven breath, cracks open an eye, focussing on my shoes because it's a long, long way up from where he is to my face, and shrugs his shoulder gently. "Master," he whispers, little more than an exhale.

I smile. I've got him so beautifully trained.

I use the spotless, shiny toe of my shoe to prod lightly at his shoulder, to push him onto his back. He rolls with a shudder and a deep groan, arms coming round himself, as if to hold himself together.

It's a bit late for that.

"Oh, Captain," I murmur. "Such a hero. Not going to give in and talk. Holding out to the last."

He laughs harshly, the sound wet and rough. "Got that right." He hasn't much breath; Lucy's left his lungs intact, but pain is stealing most of his air. Blue eyes suddenly open and stare up at me, angry and challenging. "Quite a find, that wife of yours. You've trained her well."

"Oh, I didn't _train_ her," I croon. "I just found her, encouraged her. Not that she needed much encouragement. She's a natural. Took to it like a duck to water."

Jack grimaces, eyes closing again, the lines of his face tight with strain. "Just my luck."

"Yes. It's lovely to have a wife who shares my interests so wholeheartedly."

"I bet."

Oh, he's funny. I smirk. "Look at me, Captain."

When he doesn't immediately open his eyes, I move my toe again, an inch to the left of where it was, nudging the skewer poking through his shoulder. Jack screams, body arching, hands coming up as if to push against the source of the pain but halting halfway because obviously moving them hurts him more than the pain I'm inflicting. He collapses, panting harshly, and opens his eyes to glare up at me.

I crouch down beside him, winding one finger down his chest, in between the gashes and gouges and rivulets of blood. "Talk to me, Jack," I say softly, watching my finger. "Tell me what's going on, what you're up to, and I'll kill you now, nice and quick." I lock eyes with him. "Keep up the brave hero act, and you can lie here till you bleed to death."

Jack laughs again, bitterly. "You really don't know me at all, do you?" he grinds out, eyes narrowed and dangerous. "You think you do, but you have _no fucking idea_ what really gets to me."

Oh yes. Things have definitely changed. The honourable Captain would _never_ have spoken to me like that even a few weeks ago. Where has he got this new confidence from?

Well, the Doctor, obviously. But how? The last time they saw each other, I'd managed to make them make each other thoroughly miserable – Jack because he'd given in and enjoyed what the Doctor and I had done to him, together, and the Doctor because he'd facilitated that without even realising. And – oh – wasn't that wonderful! But I just don't understand how _that_ could have led to such a change in Jack.

And I don't know how to make him tell me. I used to be able to manipulate Jack by threatening to re-age the Doctor, but there's no way he'd believe I'd do it now, not after Christmas, not after letting them fuck, not now he knows how much I want the Doctor young. He also knows I wouldn't torture the Doctor just to get to him. I'd torture Jack to get to the Doctor – have and will – but not the other way round. And without that, I have no leverage.

I'm going to have to try and get it out of the Doctor instead. I'm not going to get anywhere here.

"I think it's time for a new lesson, Captain," I sneer, standing up. "You've obviously forgotten all those lovely manners you used to display. So… new game." I reach over and wrench out the skewer, and a long groan out of him along with it, and stab it into his gut and swish it about till he finally cries out in pain and raises one hand to reach for the skewer. I stamp hard on his hand, pinning it to the ground and grinding the bones with my heel. Then I kick him hard in the side for good measure before heading over to the door.

"Have fun dying," I say sarcastically and close the door firmly.

It takes Jack hours and hours to die. I don't watch all of it, but I do come back periodically to the peephole to check on his progress. In between times, I go to Lucy. She's showered and waiting for me, naked and glorious. I fall on her, not really celebrating victory as I'd hoped, but seeking release from the frustration of things not going to plan. And commemorating the splendour of her torturing Jack, because that really was something to see.

When Jack's dead, I have his cell cleaned up thoroughly. Then I have them switch out the light and leave him in there to wake up naked and alone and in complete darkness. He'll stay like that until he returns to the properly respectful state I'd grown to love and enjoy.

And the time I expect that to take, he might well find himself starving to death again too.

* * *

While I'm waiting, I have a go at sounding out the Doctor.

He's on the bridge – he's not allowed off it without my express permission – gazing out of the porthole, leaning one hand on the frame. He looks pale and drawn and, though I might be imagining it, a little sick. It makes me wonder if the guards have told him what we've been doing to Jack. I'm going to have to have words with those guards again.

He doesn't move as I enter, not according me so much respect that he'll jump to attention when I come to him. It's not until I'm right near him that he actually bothers to look round.

"Not looking so happy now, Doctor," I say sarcastically. I was going to try the softly-softly approach, but seeing him looking like that, and acting like that, the drums just drove me towards the jibe. I can't say I'm that sorry.

He doesn't reply. He straightens and turns to lean his back against the wall, hands in his trouser pockets, feet crossed at the ankle, head tilted back, just looking at me in silence.

Silence, from the Doctor, is quite possibly the most unnerving thing of all.

"If the guards have been talking to you," I sneer, "I'm going to have them flayed alive, one by one."

"Oh for goodness' sake, as if I'd endanger them by letting them talk to me! How stupid do you think I am?"

I squint at him. "Then how do you know? Because it's clear that you _do_ know."

He sighs in exasperation, and doesn't bother to pretend not to know what I'm talking about. "Because it's coming off you in waves, Master dear. You're _projecting_. I don't even need to _look_ – I'm being bombarded with it." His shoulders rise and fall gently. "And really, given the choice, I'd rather not know. At least not in such explicit detail."

I swallow. I hadn't realised just how much the drums were interfering with my shielding these days. They're so much stronger since Gallifrey was destroyed. So much more of a nuisance.

"Just how much have you seen?" I demand, stepping in closer. "Apart from this, I mean." Not that I'm worried about what he might have seen because I don't really have any secrets I haven't gloated to him about anyway… have I? I try to think back, staring into his face, into those inscrutable brown eyes.

He just grins. "Oh, now that would be telling, wouldn't it?"

I step right in and lean over him, hands flat on the wall on either side of his head. "_Tell me what you've seen._"

He stares right back into my eyes. "No."

Just that. Just a flat no. No tension, no emotion. Just 'no'.

Drums batter my skull. I glare into those imperturbable eyes and move my hands to the sides of his head; grit my teeth, and _push_ into his mind.

He pushes back. I bounce off the barrier he's erected like a child off a trampoline. And he _sneers_ at me. "Oh, really, Master. Do you honestly think you have the control necessary to get into _my_ head?"

I don't. I honestly don't. It's not going to stop me trying though. I take a deep breath, dig my fingers into his scalp with a snarl, and try again.

He pushes back, harder, hard enough that it's like a physical blow, knocking me away from him. I stumble backwards and land on my arse in the middle of the floor, and he pushes away from the wall and strolls over to me. His hands are still in his trouser pockets – he didn't use them at all.

I'm the one who's pale and shocked now. I stare up at him, feeling ridiculously afraid, as he towers over me with that intense, serious look he's perfected so well in this body.

"Let me tell you something, _Master_," he says quietly. "I could stop you any time I wanted to. _Well_, not stop, maybe, but I could incapacitate you, chain you up, torture you, _rape_ you, and there's no-one here who would stand in my way, not after a little persuasion of my own to counteract Archangel. You've only got Lucy who's truly loyal to you, and really, how much of a threat is she? So just remember. I'm letting you carry on this little game of yours. And in return, you _stay out of my head_."

How come I feel like he's the one with all the power here, even though he's _my_ bloody prisoner on _my_ bloody ship! I wet my lips with my tongue, and whisper, "Why?"

"Why haven't I done any of that?" He glances at the floor for a moment, scuffs it with his trainer. "I honestly don't know." He arches an eyebrow. "Do you want me to?"

"Do I want you to chain me up and torture me and rape me?" _Hell yes, if it'd me get your attention. If it'd get me YOU._ I force a laugh. "Of course not."

I gaze up at him, and lick my lips again. He looks bloody fine, standing there like that, all serious and dominant.

He sighs. "You're getting off on this, aren't you?"

"Little bit."

"Damn." He tosses his head and stalks away, but it ends up being a circle that leads him right back to me as I push up to my feet. He stops in front of me so that we're toe to toe, eye to – well, eye to nose, because he's that much taller than I am. He looks down that long nose at me and says, "I'm going to stop you in the end, you know."

A tiny shiver runs down my spine. Because doesn't he always, in the end? Why should this time be any different? "What are you waiting for, then?" I ask, as nastily as I can.

"It's not time yet."

Well, that's a pretty pathetic answer.

I can't help wondering if really he's just making excuses for putting it off because he doesn't want to lose me. Not now I'm the only other one left. Poor Doctor, last of the Time Lords – oh, except that nuisance of a boy he grew up with, shagged, loved, left behind. Fuck it. He doesn't want _me_. He just wants _someone_. Just so he doesn't have to be alone, living with the knowledge that he exterminated the rest of his race.

"Well, do try to make sure you don't leave it too late this time and have to wipe out the whole planet," I say cruelly, and finally feel a stab of satisfaction as the barb hits home and he winces and pales. He doesn't say anything, just turns on his heel and goes to stare out of the porthole again.

I watch him in seething silence, forcing myself not to go after him, to sit down instead. I swing the chair jerkily from side to side for a bit, thinking. And then, since we're having a few moments of honesty with each other, I ask, absolutely not whining, "Why can't I get into Jack's head?"

He turns, and leans a shoulder against the wall, expression still enigmatic. "The TARDIS is protecting him. Even after everything you've done to her, she's still mine and she's still shielding what's mine."

"After everything _we've_ done to it. I didn't do it all myself."

He just stands there and looks at me, waiting.

Eventually, I sigh and roll my eyes. "What exactly have you done to it?"

"Said I wasn't telling, didn't I? What do you expect me to say? _Oh, yes, I tampered with this little bit over here, and that little bit over there, with the aim of blowing the machine up the next time you say 'It's good, isn't it?'_? Think again, Master. It's much more fun with you not knowing." He lifts his eyebrows briefly. "Besides, the paradox is still working, isn't it?"

"Just about."

"Well, then. Leave well alone for once and just accept that you're not as completely in control of everything as you thought you were, eh?"

Oh, he is so fucking patronizing. And from that last remark, he knows exactly what he's doing. He _knows_ that control is what I want, what I crave, what I _must have_, especially here, on _my_ ship, working _my_ plan. I snarl, drums throbbing in my head and inciting me to violence, and take out my laser screwdriver. "Do you want to rethink that not-telling-me-anything decision, Doctor?" I say, as menacingly as I can, strolling towards him, slapping the screwdriver in my palm.

He has the grace to look at least a little uncertain, which builds my ego considerably. _Ah yes, Doctor. You'd forgotten about this, hadn't you? You might be the one with the mind-control, but I'm still the only one with a screwdriver._

I reach him and raise my eyebrows, glancing down to find the right setting and then back up to his face. "Well, Doctor?"

He stares into my eyes, and there's a huge condescending sadness there, along with a fierce disgust. "You _know_ you're not getting anything out of me. You know me better than that. Do what you have to do to make yourself feel powerful, but it's not going to change anything."

The drums are so loud in my head that I can hardly think at all, the noise swirling and echoing against my skull. I step back and aim my screwdriver at the Doctor's chest and, without saying anything more, I fire, lip curled up in a sneer of fury and impotent hatred.

At least it does afford me some satisfaction, seeing him aged by a hundred years in a matter of seconds, thrashing and flailing and screaming with pain. Oh yes. He may be right, it may not change anything, but it feels fucking fantastic to make him _hurt_.

When it's over, and he's lying crumpled and weak on the floor, I stalk across and stand over him, sneering down at his old, feeble, wrinkled form as I wait for him to come round enough to talk. After all, this is the Doctor. Even if it's about nothing at all, he always talks.

"Well, thank you for warning me this time," he croaks, voice roughened by old-age.

"My pleasure," I say nastily, although he didn't give me as good a reaction to that warning as I might have hoped.

Also, I suddenly realise, I've now somehow managed to waste not only my opportunity to threaten Jack with re-aging the Doctor, but also to threaten the Doctor with torturing Jack. Damn it. I used to be better at planning than this. It's got to be the bloody drums, always pounding away in my head, disrupting, distorting, so much louder now than they ever were before. Making me blind, making me slow, making me less than I was.

I need to get away from him. I need space, and time to think. I need a plan.

I turn on my heel without another word, another look, and stride off the bridge.

* * *

Much later, after hours of wandering the deck, brain and body alike going round and round in circles, it finally occurs to me that although I might not have any power over the Doctor anymore, there is after all someone – several someones – I can put pressure on to get to Jack.

I think it's time to pay a visit to Cardiff and the surviving members of Jack's precious team.


	13. Part 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jack has a visitor from Torchwood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](https://unfeatheredfics.livejournal.com/2688.html) on 21 August 2008 and beta'd by [mad_jaks](https://mad_jaks.livejournal.com) and [_medley_](https://jadesfire.livejournal.com)

I don't descend on Cardiff immediately. The ships on the south coast of England are at a critical stage right now and I need to be there to oversee the works. It's not like I have anyone else I can trust enough to do these things for me.

There's also the fact that I want to leave Jack in his isolation long enough for it to actually _work_. And there's no point in bringing him a visitor from Cardiff until it has.

So I spend most of the next few weeks down on the surface and the rest of it with Lucy, who's loyal and faithful and actually deserves my attention. Meanwhile, I leave Jack and the Doctor to stew.

When the crucial stage of the ship-building is complete and I'm happy that I've terrified the workers enough to ensure a good quality to the rest of their work, I return to the Valiant. I burst onto the Bridge, invigorated by my success and ready to work for victory over Jack and the Doctor too, determined to find out what it is they've been up to that's made them so smug and – urgh – _happy_.

"I'm _ba-ack_!" I singsong to the Doctor, skipping over to his tent and pulling apart the flaps, before bending down to him with a massive smirk.

He just looks at me from inside the tent with those big, soulful eyes, and stays silent.

I roll my eyes, suppressing a sigh. "Oh, Doctor, still got nothing to say? Still taking this not-talking thing literally, are we?"

I'm beginning to think aging him again wasn't such a good idea. He seems to have far more _patience_ when he's old. Normally, he's so full of energy that he'd be bouncing about and chattering away nineteen to the dozen right now, even if he wasn't actually _saying_ anything. But since I used the Lazarus technology on him again, he's been incredibly passive. He's just sat there in his wheelchair or on the floor in his tent (depending on how generous I'm feeling), quiet and inactive, and I'm getting very, very bored with it. Especially as, for all my prodding and poking and trying to surprise him into telling me what he and Jack have been up to, he hasn't said a sodding word in response.

"Last chance," I tell him, leaning back against the conference table with a grin that probably looks more like a grimace, drums pounding in my head. He may have all the patience in the world, but mine is definitely running out.

He doesn't even ask _Last chance before what?_ Just looks up at me, and very slowly shakes his head.

I feel my jaw tighten. "All right, then. We'll do it the hard way. Time to pay a visit to Captain Jack's little team."

That finally gets me a brief flare of curiosity and anxiety, but not enough to make him actually engage with me. Fine. If that's the way he wants to play it, that's the way we'll do it. I shrug, and head off the bridge, feeling disappointed and vaguely cheated, to go and make the arrangements.

* * *

I've actually been rather looking forward to meeting at least one member of Jack's team. I've watched them on the CCTV, I've listened in to their phone calls, I've read their external emails (even I haven't managed to get into their internal ones), and I've enjoyed seeing them gradually lose hope and motivation as the months have passed.

And from what I'd observed, both before Jack left and after, it's obvious which one of them he cares for the most, which one I need to lean on in order to gain the honourable Captain's co-operation.

The best bit is that I don't even have to kidnap anyone. Archangel is still working its magic over the remaining citizens of Earth, and the employees of Torchwood? Well, they might have had a certain amount of psychic training but they're still only human. Not to mention that there are still armies of Toclafane hovering all around to enforce obedience if necessary. All I have to do is put in an official order for the acting head of Torchwood Three to report to the _Valiant_, and none of them even think of refusing. Or even questioning, actually. Blind sheep, the lot of them.

Within three hours, a specially chartered plane is flying up to the _Valiant_. I watch it take off on the monitors, and then head down to the Captain, to prepare him for his visitor.

* * *

Jack's been on his own in the dark for over six weeks now. No food, no light, no clothes, nothing. Just him, an empty, pitch dark cell, and some bottles of water.

He's only starved to death twice in that time, his body resetting itself after death and giving itself new reserves to draw on, so that the second time took just as long as the first. He's only a couple of days into his latest life, so he's physically fit, just hungry. What his mental state is remains to be seen.

He hasn't broken. He hasn't begged. He hasn't even raged much. A little bit, when he first woke up in the dark. A bit more when it began to sink in that I was just going to leave him there. And then some more when he found the bottles of water in the corner of his cell, because he knew what that meant. It meant he was there for the long-haul, that he could choose to eke out each life a bit longer, if he drank it. And he drank it. Of course he did. The human instinct to survive is incredibly strong. Admirably strong. Almost as strong as mine.

And now it's time to find out how strong his desire to keep someone else alive is.

If I was a nice sort of person, I might open the door to Jack's cell before turning the lights on, to give his poor eyes a chance to adjust. But I'm not nice, of course. I'm not nice at all. I glance at the monitor showing an infra-red view of the room to make sure Jack's awake – because it won't be nearly so much fun if he's asleep – and he is, sitting in the corner of the room with his knees drawn up and his arms wrapped around them, eyes automatically open even though it's pitch dark.

I flip the switch, push the door open and stalk in.

Jack _yells_, and flails wildly, scrabbling for a moment before curling up tight in his corner with both arms across his face, panting hard.

Oh, that's _good_. I shut the door behind me, lean back against it, and wait.

And notice the _stench_.

Six weeks of sweat and dirt and decay. Six weeks without sanitation. At least without food there isn't much… mess, and he used empty water bottles to pee into until he lost the strength to move to do it, so it could be a _lot_ worse. Still, it's a far cry from the almost clinical cleanliness I'm used to, and for a moment I retch, covering my nose and mouth with my hanky as I struggle to conquer my body's instinctive reaction to the smell.

Fortunately, Jack's still shivering and shielding his eyes in the corner, and by the time he starts to move at last, my handkerchief is back in my pocket and I'm well and truly in control again.

He uncurls gradually, breath slowing, and drops first one arm and then, after a pause, the other. He blinks hard, scrubs at his streaming eyes with a filthy hand, and finally raises his head and squints at me across the room.

I give him a moment, then lift an eyebrow, and nod at the floor in front of me.

Jack shudders and closes his eyes again for a long moment, so long that I start to wonder if he's going to disobey me, and I shift impatiently. At the sound, his eyes fly open and he starts to move. Slowly, stiffly, painfully, as if he's forgotten how, he shifts onto his knees and crawls unsteadily across to me, then sits back on his heels, puts his hands on his thighs and lowers his head.

I let out a long breath, because this is what I was missing, this gratifying obedience – _respect_. I look him over appreciatively. Even with two days' growth of beard (don't ask me why, but he's always clean-shaven when he comes back), and tears making streaks through six weeks' worth of grime, he's beautiful.

I lay a hand on his head and curl my fingers into his hair, and he stiffens and lifts his eyes slowly to my face.

I smile. "Very good, Captain. It's nice to have you back."

He shivers again, long tremors running through his body. It'll take a while, I suppose, for him to get used to light and contact again. I brush my fingers through his hair soothingly, and he startles and stares up at me, breathing erratically, before slowly calming. Eventually, after a long moment, his eyes drift gratefully closed again and he leans into my touch.

That – _that_ – is fantastic.

I give him one last stroke, then take my hand away, studying his face. "So, Captain. Anything to say to me?"

His breath hitches and his eyes fly open. He has to clear his throat a couple of times before he can speak, and when he does, it's barely a whisper. "Thank you, Master."

Okay, not what I was looking for, but it sounds lovely coming from his lips. I smile, and stroke his hair again. "Anything else?"

He's still for a moment, as if he's forgotten what it was he'd lost his manners about last time we spoke. Perhaps he has. Six weeks on his own, spent mostly dying, can't have done much for his mind.

Then he tenses as it comes back to him, gazing up at me beseechingly, and I laugh bitterly. "Don't worry, Captain, I'm glad to see you quiet and respectful again. I really am. It was definitely worth waiting for. But I still want answers from you about what you and the Doctor have been keeping from me, what your big _secret_ is, what made you both so _smug_…" I sneer, and he recoils slightly. I straighten, laughing. "And I've got something else planned to help get that out of you. Go and get cleaned up, Captain. There's someone on their way here to see you. One of your _friends_."

He tenses further, eyes fixed on my face in slowly-dawning horror. "Who? What have you done?" he whispers hoarsely.

I laugh again, cupping his chin and stroking his cheek with my thumb. "Wait and see." I pat his cheek, then turn and open the door and beckon the guards in. "Help him get clean and dressed, then clean the cell!" I order, and say to Jack, "I'll see you in half an hour, Captain."

I don't mention the possibility of him getting fed, and he doesn't ask. He's learning. Oh, he's definitely learning.

* * *

I'm up on the roof to meet the plane as it lands, and stand there waiting until the door opens to reveal Jack's visitor: the lovely Ms Gwen Cooper. She descends the steps briskly and walks over to me, extending her hand. "Mr Saxon." Her voice is quiet and authoritative, her gaze direct, though she eyes the three Toclafane hovering a short distance behind my head with distrust.

I shake her hand, and let an amused little smile play on my lips. "That's 'Master' to you, Ms Cooper." Might as well get this off on the right footing straight away.

Her eyebrows lift, eyes a little wary now. "You actually use that title?"

"Oh, yes," I assure her. "I actually do."

A moment's pause while she digests that. "All right then. Master. What can Torchwood do for you?"

"I need some help with a little problem I'm having. Let's go inside, shall we?" I place a hand on the small of her back to guide her towards the lift.

We make ultra-polite small talk as we descend and then fall silent as we step out into the corridor along which Jack resides. I'm not taking her to his cell, because however thoroughly they've managed to clean it, some odour is bound to remain and I'd like somewhere sterile and unused for this. I've had him taken to the room next door instead.

Gwen glances round at the corridor, obviously confused. "Where are we going?"

"To visit a friend of yours," I tell her smugly.

Her dark brows draw together as she presumably tries to work out if I'm being facetious with the word 'friend'. She probably thinks I mean a weevil, which makes me want to giggle.

I urge her on down the corridor with light pressure on her lower back again. "Let's go and say hello, shall we?"

She nods, still looking doubtful, as if she's beginning to wonder if she was doing the right thing in complying so easily with the order to come to the _Valiant_. I aim a reassuring smile at her, and she gives me an uncertain one back, showing off that dreadful gap between her front teeth.

I pause outside the door, savouring the anticipation of the reactions I'm about to get from both parties, while Gwen eyes the guards uneasily. They let us in and then lock the door behind us.

Jack is on the far side of the room, washed and dressed and on his feet and looking remarkably well for someone who hasn't tasted food in six weeks. It looks for a moment as if he's standing to attention, but the fact is that his hands are chained behind him. There's a guard on either side of him too. I'm not taking chances, not with the man who can't die when he's being faced with the way he's going to be made to talk.

He must know the visitor will be one of his team – there really didn't seem to be anyone else in his life. Even so, when he sees who it is, his brows draw together as if in surprise, and I wonder for a moment if I've got the wrong person. If, in fact, he cares more for the mouthy Cockney doctor or the stoic Welsh assistant – or for the little Japanese girl who lamentably died in the first Toclafane attack. I silently berate myself for not trying harder to get into the Hub's internal CCTV. Perhaps there was more going on behind the scenes than I realised, because when they were outside, it always seemed to be pretty little Ms Cooper the Captain spent most of his time with.

What does it matter, though? He obviously cares deeply for her – anyone can see that. And he's got that heroic streak that ought to react better to the idea of a damsel in distress than a male. This ought to be good.

Well, it had better be. I've waited long enough to know what the hell is going on here.

I turn my attention to his visitor. Gwen has gone utterly still, her eyes wide. "Jack?" she asks, low and incredulous, half-happy to see him, half-anxious as to why he's here.

Jack swallows and forces a laugh. "Yeah. It's me."

Her gaze flicks between him and me, bewildered. I watch her with a faint smile, enjoying the realisation gradually awakening on her face – and the moment it flips her into action. She flings herself past me towards the door, yanking at the handle and banging on the metal with her fists, yelling, "Let me out! Let me out!"

I put my hands in my pockets, lean a shoulder against the wall and let her have her tantrum. Eventually, when there's no response either from outside or inside the cell, she gives up and turns to face me, panting, hands fisted at her sides.

"Tell me what's going on!"

I laugh gently, raise one eyebrow, and turn my head to look at Jack. "Captain? Would you like to explain?"

She looks at him with a frown. Her eyes flick to his arms, which haven't come out from behind his back to gesticulate or to reach out to her, and she finally realises why. "Jack? What's going on? Is this where you've been, all this time?"

He gives another short bark of laughter. "Most of it, yeah."

Her eyes soften, sickeningly compassionate. "Oh, Jack – " she begins, but he cuts her off.

"Don't," he says unsteadily, eyes pleading.

She bites her lip, and swings round to confront me. "What have you done to him? What do you want him for?"

"Gwen," Jack says, low and warning, despair beginning to show in his eyes.

"And what do you want _me_ for? What do you think I'm going to do for you, you sick bastard?"

"_Gwen_!" he barks, and she stops. She's still furious and scared, breathing hard, hands clenched, but she obeys her boss.

Well, I would too, in her shoes. Like the Doctor, Jack's rather magnificent when he's in dominant mode. He might not be actually much good at leading, but he certainly inspires one to follow.

I smirk, and take a couple of paces towards her, enjoying Jack's instinctive jerk as if to stop me, cut off short by his handcuffs pulling tight. I reach out to Gwen and smooth a strand of hair back from her face – only to have my hand swiftly knocked away hard by her forearm. It startles me more than hurts, and the drums start to roll round my skull as I cradle that hand with my other one and squint down at her, treating her to a nasty smile.

"Oh, Ms Cooper, you have such a lot to learn," I croon, aware that across the room Jack hasn't relaxed and isn't enjoying the fact that his little protégée just stood up to me. He knows, even if she doesn't, that she'll pay for that. I lower my head and hold her gaze. "But there's plenty of time. I'm sure by the time I've finished with you, you'll be an awful lot wiser."

There's another movement of protest from Jack, possibly designed to distract me from Gwen. I glance towards him, admiring how furiously he wears his helplessness, and settle myself into a lazy stance, weight back, arms folded, waiting.

"So, Captain. What's it to be?"

He glares at me, gaze hot and haunted and vulnerable. His own stance is forward, shoulders tipped towards me as if he's about to rush me, though he won't, and not just because of the handcuffs and the soldiers beside him. It's not really me he's fighting. It's himself. Trying to find the lesser evil between giving in to the tyrant and letting a sweet, innocent girl be tortured because of him.

But really, there's only one outcome I expect from this. Because whatever Jack's willing to let me do to _him_, or even the Doctor, hurting someone on his team, someone he feels _responsible_ for, is quite another matter.

I glance back at Gwen, standing there wide-eyed and quivering – oh, such a pretty picture! – and then back at Jack, my gaze hardening.

"Captain?"

His eyes come up to mine, helpless and hating. "What does it matter if I agree to talk? You'll torture her anyway." His voice is harsh but it's weakening, his expression agonised. How he hates being so powerless to protect those he loves!

"Oh, Captain, such low expectations of me!" I chide, grinning lightly. "You never know. I might just let her go. I don't really have much interest in her." I look her over again, deliberately. "Though she is rather lovely, isn't she? I bet she's a screamer. Don't you think she'd be a screamer?"

I pause, to give him a chance to give in, but he's not quite there yet. Perhaps a little demonstration to help him along. I quickly step up behind Gwen and grab a fistful of that lovely hair. She yelps, high and shocked, and tries to twist, lashing out, but this time she can't reach me easily and I just yank her higher, onto her toes so she's more or less helpless. And look past her to Jack with a feral grin.

He jerks at her scream. A tiny, instinctive reaction, but very gratifying to see. I raise my eyebrows at him. "Come on, Captain. Don't make me _really_ hurt her."

His glare has faded to something less aggressive, something more like sick defeat. He bites his lip. And then, he slumps. He doesn't kneel, but the effect is the same.

"Let her go," he says wearily, shoulder flexing as if he's automatically trying to gesture towards Gwen, "and I'll talk."

I'm desperate enough for _any_ kind of progress on this that I oblige by letting go of her hair. She gasps and scurries away out of reach, and I smirk at Jack as I walk towards him. He meets my eyes, wary and furious and defeated, and grinds out, again, "_Let her go_, and I'll talk."

"Oh, Captain, you _know_ it doesn't work like that," I croon, bringing a hand up to stroke down his tightly-clenched jaw and deciding – again – that I really, really hate the fact that he's taller than I am. I release his chin and point at the floor. "Kneel, and talk, and _then_ I'll let her go."

"Jack," Gwen says shakily. "Are you sure about this?"

His expression softens into a sad smile as he looks past me at her. "Sweetheart, it's okay. He's going to find out in the end."

After a moment, she nods, biting her lip.

Jack turns back to me and says, eyes beseeching but voice still determined, "At least send her out of the room. Please."

I study him while I think about it, but let's be honest. He's going to get his way. I've waited far too long and spent too much time on this to give up now over such a minor matter.

I nod, briefly. "Very well, Captain." I turn to the guard on his left. "Take Ms Cooper next door, and stay with her."

Gwen turns pale as the guard starts towards her and gazes anxiously at Jack. "Jack. Don't let him bully you."

Jack laughs, sharply, humourlessly. "Gwen, I know what I'm doing. Now get out of here while you can."

I'm more than a little incensed that it's his order she obeys rather than mine. But again, I take what I can get and let the rest go.

I wait till she's out of the room, then remark sarcastically, "Didn't want her to see you on your knees, is that it, Captain?"

"Not at all," he says coolly. "I just wanted her safely out of the way when you throw the hissy fit you're going to throw when you hear what I'm going to say."

I feel my eyes narrow as anger and drums flood through me. I snarl, and point at the floor again. "On your knees and lose the attitude. Now. Or I get her straight back in here."

Jack meets my eyes for one brief, intense moment, then sinks easily to his knees.

"That's better, Captain," I purr, relaxing slightly, and stepping back so I can see his face better. "Now, supposing you tell me what the hell has been going on with you and the Doctor? What have you been up to? What on Earth made you both so _happy_?"

He lifts an eyebrow. Not exactly mocking – it's too innocuous for that – but definitely questioning my facts. "Well, first of all, I don't know what you're talking about when you say 'you and the Doctor'. I haven't seen him for months. Not since…"

He falters, and I grab the chance to sneer. "Yes. Not since that rather fun night when I let the two of you get intimate. Which is why I find it even more suspicious that _both_ of you changed after that night." I squint at him. "What happened, Captain?"

He laughs gently, eyes clear and not evading mine. "Nothing _happened_, Master. Nothing except that being there, with him, and with you, cleared a few things up in my head. Resolved a few issues for me."

My eyes narrow further. "What issues? Be specific, Captain." _Because I'm not entirely sure I believe you, and you seriously need to convince me._

"You want the gory details of my relationship with the Doctor?" His eyebrows are high, his lips curving in amusement.

I shift impatiently. "_Yes_."

Jack shrugs slightly. "Okay. Let's just put it this way. I'd spent a hundred and forty years waiting around for him. Finding him, at a point in his timeline after he'd met me, was the best way I could think of to escape from twentieth century Earth after my Vortex Manipulater died and stranded me there. It wasn't exactly because I wanted to see _him_ again. He'd left me for dead, so I really wasn't expecting to be welcomed back with open arms. I just wanted to get off Earth, to be able to travel again. I'd had enough of living the slow path.

"When we did meet again, things were – a little strained between us." He laughs briefly. "Well, you know how things were. You were there, after all. And then, _you_ happened. We never got a chance to talk and resolve things: his guilt for Rose making me into – in his eyes – a monster, and for running away from me; me blaming him for abandoning me, not even _telling_ me what had happened… Anyway. Then you put us together in an extremely intimate situation, and. Well. We sorted things out."

I squint at him again. "How?"

He lifts his eyebrows, eyes dancing wickedly, and I groan.

"I knew it. I _knew_ he'd disobeyed that order not to get up to anything telepathically."

Jack actually grins, easy and charming. "Really, don't worry about it. It wasn't anything big, or sneaky. We just… found our peace with each other."

"Despite what I made him do to you?" I can't help feeling a little sceptical.

His eyes darken. "Yeah, well. That wasn't the most pleasant thing ever. But that was about _you_, about what _you'd_ made happen. It gave us a common enemy to hate." The corner of his mouth twitches. "And that left us able to let a lot of other stuff go."

I squint down at him. "And the reason you endured torture and death for _seven weeks_ rather than simply tell me this is…?"

He gives me a limpid look. "I have to do _something_ to keep you occupied, Master. It's what I'm here for, after all. Isn't it?"

Oh yes, it most certainly is. And in a way, it's lovely to know that he's aware of that, of his _place_. But it also means the cocky bastard's been _playing_ me. Again.

I take a deep breath. "So basically, what it comes down to is that the two of you have been laughing at me ever since that night. Doesn't it?"

He tilts his head. "Well, as I said, I haven't seen the Doctor, but yeah. It was you trying to hurt us by using us against each other that got us sorted out again. It is kinda funny."

I grit my teeth, feeling my face flush and the drums go wild in my head. "Well, now you're going to pay for that fun, Captain. _No-one_ laughs at me."

He looks at me seriously, without flinching, more with a kind of unsurprised acceptance. "See, I told you? Hissy fit."

I bare my teeth. "You think I'm going to hurt you now."

"_Oh_, yes." He sounds, not exactly eager, but definitely as if he's prepared himself for pain.

I quell the drums as far as I can, and say quietly, letting my eyes show my glee that he's misjudged me so, "Well, that's your mistake, Captain. I'm not going to hurt you.

"I'm going to hurt _her_."

* * *

When I'm finished with Gwen, and showered and changed, I fuck Jack on his hands and knees on the floor of his cell, facing a screen playing a recording of what I did to his formerly-beautiful team member.

"See, all this could have been avoided if you'd just been a good little boy," I remind him, hand cupping his jaw to keep his head up and facing the screen. "She wouldn't have to have suffered; you wouldn't have to be watching it, and I wouldn't have been able to get off on it."

"You'd have done it anyway," he grinds out, and I grin silently, because he can't be certain of that. Not certain enough to stop him feeling guilty for making it happen.

On the screen, Gwen screams as I take a knife to the soft flesh of her naked body, and Jack flinches. "Awww, poor little Gwennie," I murmur mockingly. "I was right: she is a screamer."

I use the hand on Jack's jaw to twist his head away from the screen for a moment, so I can see his face. "How does it feel, Captain? How does it feel watching that and knowing you're responsible?"

He squirms in my grip, but mostly it's just to get his head free enough to speak. "It won't count," he grates. "As soon as the Paradox Machine is destroyed, time will rewind and everything you've done to me and the people I love will be undone."

I narrow my eyes, stilling inside him. "How do you know that?"

"Come on, anyone with rudimentary knowledge of paradoxes could figure _that_ out."

Of course, he used to be a Time Agent. I nod, and smile. "It's still been done, though," I tell him. "Even if your precious Doctor does somehow manage to reverse the Paradox – and he doesn't seem to be in much of a hurry to _try_ – it all still happened." I nod at the screen. "_She_ may not remember, but _you_ will. You'll carry this image of her, cut up and bleeding, hurting and screaming, with you for the rest of your life. And the best thing?" I smirk. "For you, that means forever and ever, doesn't it?"

"Oh, fuck you," he says venomously, and I laugh maniacally and come, deep inside him.

* * *

It's late when I wander back up to the bridge, and the Doctor's already curled up in his tent, apparently asleep. He's spending a lot more time sleeping lately, as if he's got nothing better to do. As if he's given _up_.

I dance over, bend down and haul him out by the collar, holding him there on his knees so I can sneer down at him. "Well, Doctor. The game's up. I know what all that _happiness_ from the pair of you was all about."

He just looks up at me with that infuriatingly impassive stare of his, and I give him a little shake. "Just be glad I got a decent reaction out of your beloved Captain, so I'm not too worried about getting one out of you."

"Reaction? Is that what they're calling it these days?" he murmurs glibly.

I grin, because at least I've got something out of him now, even if he's not taking any notice of my hands on his collar, the _power_ I have over him at this moment – physical, if not mental. "It was a very nice reaction," I say airily, and finally let him go, with a little shove so that he falls backwards onto his arse. Which does at least get me a glare, even if it’s only a small one.

I grin, because oh _god_ I want to make him pay for laughing at me behind my back with Jack.

And then I catch wind of a commotion going on at the other end of the room. I get to my feet and stride over. "What's going on?"

The soldier who's just entered turns to me, face white and scared. "Master," he says breathlessly. "It's the Paradox Machine. It's… there's a problem with the power. It seems to be shutting down!"

I spin round and stalk back to the Doctor, eyes narrowed with suspicion. "What have you done?" I demand menacingly.

He rolls his eyes. "I haven't done _anything_. I haven't been near the poor thing in weeks."

Which is presumably true, although I can't be absolutely sure, since I wasn't here myself. He's still my number one suspect, though.

Whatever. Assigning blame can wait. Fixing the machine is my first priority.

I give the Doctor a final glare and race off the Bridge and down to the one thing that's holding everything together and which really, really can't be allowed to fail. The Paradox Machine breaks down, and _everything_ is over.

I'm damned if I'm going to let that happen.


	14. Part 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Master needs a little help to fix the Paradox Machine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](https://unfeatheredfics.livejournal.com/4311.html) on 1 November 2008 and beta'd by [mad_jaks](https://mad_jaks.livejournal.com) and [jadesfire](https://jadesfire.livejournal.com)
> 
> Warning: Yet more torture, Jack!death and blood, guts and gore (not for the squeamish)

The TARDIS is dark inside and all but silent, with just a few lights blinking and the odd gurgle and groan to show that the Paradox Machine hasn't shut down completely. Panicking, I tear aside the grilles and lunge for the controls, easing the level of functioning back up as fast as I can whilst searching desperately for the cause of the failure. The drums pounding through my head really don't help my concentration and I quickly realise I'm not going to be able to do this alone.

With an anxious glance back at the console to ensure it's not going to blow up if I leave it for a few seconds, I run to the door, open it and scream to the guards and the Toclafane outside to fetch the Doctor. _Now_.

By the time he gets here, the drumming in my head is drowning out virtually all thought and I'm running on instinct, racing around the console to balance out the power fluctuations as they arise. I'm not even aware that the Doctor's arrived until I hear his voice, calm and resigned, in my ear, making me jump. "All right, what's the problem?"

My relief that he's here and going to help is overwhelming. Fortunately, he doesn't actually need me to speak. He just casts a searching glance over the console, nods briskly, and then flips open a panel and starts working, a Toclafane hovering near his head and watching closely over his shoulder. It can't really know what he's doing but it should at least tell me if he starts looking sneaky.

I exhale and rush round the console to balance the tertiary temporal stabiliser as he tweaks the primary and secondary ones.

He grunts, and works; opens another panel under the console and pokes around in there; reaches up for a lever and finds he can't reach it; hauls himself up with a curse at his feeble old body and drags the lever towards him. I frown at him, hanging onto my own lever to compensate for what he's doing, and he raises an eyebrow, saying crossly, "You know, there is someone else who could help us with this. Another set of hands really wouldn't hurt."

It takes me a moment to work out who he's talking about. "You mean _Jack_?"

"Yes, Jack!" he says exasperatedly. "Best TARDIS mechanic I've ever known outside of Gallifrey."

My eyebrows lift, even as I concentrate on adjusting a couple of dials. "I didn't know that."

"Well, now you do. I should send for him if I were you. Might be just who we need to make this actually _work_."

I study him with narrowed eyes, and he meets my look with that bland gaze he's perfected in this body. I purse my lips, because getting Jack in could also tip everything over into failure if it's some ploy of the Doctor's.

Something squeals and as I dash over to fix it I realise I don't have any choice. If I don't accept Jack's help, the paradox is likely to break anyway.

I gesture to the guard standing to attention just inside the door. "Get Harkness. Quickly!"

Jack's here within minutes – minutes during which things go from bad to worse, the hum of the TARDIS dying down and the pulsing red light almost going out. I'm panicking again, peering through the darkness, and fighting the drums for the clarity of mind to do what needs to be done here.

I glance at Jack, who looks calm and annoyingly smug, and realise he's handcuffed. "Get his cuffs off!" I yell at the guards. "He can't work in cuffs!" They look frightened and hasten to obey.

By the time Jack's hands are free, the Doctor has filled him in on the problem and told him to get started with fixing the causality regulator. He glances at me for permission – _good boy_ – and gets down to it, stroking the TARDIS softly, almost apologetically, before delving into her innards. The Toclafane hovers between him and the Doctor so it can keep an eye on both of them.

We all work in silence – apart from the odd grunt of effort or curse when showers of sparks land on our fingers – for a long time, and gradually things start to calm down. The paradox grows more stable, the light increases, and my drums finally begin to quiet.

"You need more power," the Doctor says eventually, sounding tired and drained. "She's just not going to last like this, Master."

I squint across the console at him. "You've been saying that for months and I've been siphoning as much power off the _Valiant_ as I can. What more can it need?"

"And I keep telling you, it's the wrong kind of power. It's been keeping her going but it's not enough. We're going to have to keep working harder and harder to stabilise the paradox and eventually it's going to fail. It's a _paradox_. It's trying to resolve itself and we're trying to hold it back. She's going to keep taking more and more power."

He's right, of course. And I know – always have known, at the back of my mind – that it means that one day there simply won't be enough power available _anywhere_ to keep the paradox going. I just hope that by that time I'll have found a way round it.

"So what kind of power _does_ it need?" I demand, frustrated. "Haven't you managed to work that out by now?"

There's a moment's silence. He's fiddling with something below floor level, his face out of sight. "No," he says shortly.

Does he think I can't _tell_ when he's lying? I make sure the switches I'm working on are where I want them, and cross to him, hauling at the back of his collar. "Don't lie to me, Doctor," I snarl, pulling him out of the hole and round to face me, on his knees. "_Look_ at me and tell me 'No' again."

From the corner of my eye, I'm aware of Jack's instinctive movement of protest at me manhandling his Doctor, but as long as he doesn't actually interfere, I'm willing to ignore that insubordination.

The Doctor won't meet my eyes. I shake him ferociously. "_Tell me_!" I demand, and this time Jack gets to his feet.

"On your knees, Captain!" I bellow, and he actually has the gall to hesitate for a moment, before common sense takes over and he sinks slowly to his knees, safe and out of the way.

I glare down at the Doctor, slightly mollified but still furious that he's been defying me in this. "Tell me," I say, with quiet menace. "Or the Captain gets it."

It's enough. The Doctor sighs and goes limp in my grasp. "He's going to get it anyway," he says, making it clear that that's the only reason he's giving in, and I finally work it out.

"_Oh_!" I let the Doctor go and gaze delightedly past him to Jack. "Of _course_! Vortex energy. We need Vortex energy. And where have we got an inexhaustible supply of Vortex energy? Captain Constant!"

Jack's looking down, the picture of a perfect submissive, quiet and patient, as if he hasn't spent the last hour working frantically – and physically – to sort out the TARDIS.

"What do you say, Captain?" I ask him, and as he looks up at me, I see from his eyes that he'd already worked it out too. I lift an eyebrow. "You have a soft spot for the TARDIS, don't you? Want to be the one to get her working again properly?"

His throat moves as he swallows. "I'm not going to be given a choice anyway, am I?" he says hollowly.

I grin slowly. "No, Captain, you're not. The only question is: how to transfer the energy from _you_ into the Paradox Machine."

I fold my arms and study him, biting my lip. "I suppose the obvious way is to bleed you. The power seems to be in your blood, after all." Though then I'd have to do some complicated chemical processes to convert that to something the Paradox Machine could use.

This time, predictably, it's the Doctor who protests. "_No_," he says in a low voice, struggling to get up and between me and Jack.

I push him out of the way easily; he's so weak in this old body. "I need that power, Doctor," I say tautly.

"There's an easier way," Jack says wearily, and I swing back to him, stare demanding. He meets it fully, a pulse beating fast in his neck. "I can give it to her. I can control it, to some extent. I just have to touch her, connect with her."

I feel my lips curl, baring my teeth, at this news. "And it didn't occur to you to offer that little talent a bit earlier, Captain?"

He swallows again, still subdued but taunting me within that. "It occurred to me, yes. But I wasn't going to offer if you couldn't work it out for yourself."

I snarl, drums pounding, and backhand him across the jaw. His head rocks back but he doesn't go down. He was expecting the blow.

Of course he was. He knows exactly what he's doing, all the time. Mostly, it seems to involve playing me.

I glower down at him. "Get on with it then, Captain. Let's get this little problem of ours sorted out so we don't have to worry about it any more."

"Yes, Master," he says, as if admitting that there's no point delaying any further, and it _does_ sound good even if I know he's only saying it to mollify me.

He goes down onto his hands and knees and opens a panel in the base of the console. "I assume this'll work the way it ought to, what with all you've done to her," he mutters, shoving aside a tangle of wires until there's a big enough piece of blank metal to place his palm flat against.

I clench my fists and resist the urge to kick him in the backside for that remark. Time enough to make him pay for his disrespect later. And he _will_ pay. Oh yes, he'll pay.

It's fascinating watching him work. Lovely even, from a purely aesthetic perspective: he's on his knees and bent low to reach the panel, muscles straining to hold the awkward position, one hand splayed on the floor for support, the other in contact with the TARDIS. His face – pale in the red light – is tight with concentration. And I can almost _taste_ the tingle of energy running down his arm and into the TARDIS. After drinking in the sight for a minute, though, I whirl away, switching switches, dialling dials, levering levers, making sure that it's working. And it is. The readings gradually get higher, success neatly measured, the hum starts up again properly and I start to relax. 

And pay more attention to Jack. I take readings from him with my screwdriver, trying to work out what is actually happening. It's not enough, though. Next time, I'll need to put monitors and gauges on him to try and measure what he's doing, and how I might be able to _force_ it to happen if I need to. _When_ I need to. I'm not stupid enough to think he's going to feed my Paradox Machine forever without considerable incentive, and I'd prefer to force him than pretend to pander to his outrageous demands.

The Doctor edges nearer too, obviously as intrigued by what Jack's doing as I am. Although he knew Jack contained the energy, it's apparent that he didn't know Jack could control it to _this_ extent. It really is awe-inspiring to watch, as Jack slowly feeds his life force into the TARDIS.

Even the Toclafane hovers closer and closer, cooing over all the power that Jack contains.

Eventually, the readings level off as the flow of energy slows and finally stops. Jack pulls back and starts, slowly, to kneel up. He looks tired and grey – literally drained. "That's all I can give right now," he says quietly.

I nod. It's enough. And I know that, unfortunately, killing him and making him start again wouldn't help, because when he's drained he's out for longer, as he apparently was after so _generously_ feeding his life force into the monster Abbadon to save the world… _Oh!_ Oh, for goodness' _sake_! I should have made that connection a _lot_ sooner. All this time, I had a power source right under my nose (and my thumb) and I just couldn't _see_it!

I take a deep breath. Too late for self-recriminations. At least I know now. I glower down at Jack. He's going to pay for making me feel stupid.

"Are you all right?" the Doctor asks him, tentatively reaching out a hand to touch his shoulder.

Jack nods and glances at him. "Yeah. Just tired."

The Doctor pats his shoulder sympathetically and then lets his hand drop. He looks tired too.

I grin. "Well, you'll get a chance to reset soon enough, Captain."

They both look at me, the beginnings of realisation in their faces.

Oh, it's good to have their attention like that. I do like it when they acknowledge the power I have over them.

"Time to pay for holding out on me," I sneer, and watch Jack's beautiful long throat move as he swallows.

I'm not quite expecting the childlike voice from behind Jack's head. "Can we slice him, Master? Can we slice and dice him and make pretty red ribbons of him?"

I feel a vicious grin spread across my face as I digest this idea.

"_No!_" the Doctor protests violently, arms flailing as he struggles to his feet, attempting to place himself between Jack and the Toclafane – a hopeless task with a being that floats in the air.

"Oh, _yes_," I reply with a wide grin, gleeful at getting such a wonderfully strong reaction from him. "I've let Lucy play with him; now it's _their_ turn. Oh, this is going to be _fun_!"

* * *

From the safety of the CCTV control room (I'm not risking getting in the same room as all those spinning, twirling blades – too much danger of getting hurt, not to mention getting _messy_) I watch as my favoured four Toclafane do indeed make pretty red ribbons of Jack, painting the floor, walls and even the ceiling of his room red with his blood. When they've finished, the only recognisable parts of him are his head, a foot and half his torso. The rest is shredded beyond identification.

I'd like to watch as his body draws itself back together again, but it seems that that's going to take some time. I leave the cameras on time lapse so I can observe the process later in fast-forward and go off to vent my euphoria on Lucy, with one of the hottest couplings we've had in ages.

And then it's time to see how far I can goad my Doctor. Skipping back onto the Bridge to taunt the Doctor after torturing/fucking/killing Jack (delete as applicable) has become a bit of a ritual. Today is no exception, and I'm looking forward to it.

He's in his wheelchair, holding his head in his hand as if it hurts, and it's a moment before he looks round, slowly, almost as if it was _he_ who drained his life force into his precious TARDIS earlier, not Jack.

"Has he come round yet?" he asks urgently, almost pleadingly. 

I shake my head with a slow smile, moving to lean against the table, fingers curling to grip the underside of its smooth, shiny top. "It's going to be a while yet, I think. He's got a _lot_ of healing to do."

The Doctor blanches, bony old shoulders going tense, and I laugh. "Do you know what they did to him, Doctor? Do you want to _see_? I can show you…?" I start to move over to the telly, taking my screwdriver out to feed through the pictures of the Toclafane slicing Jack up.

"No. _Please_." His voice is hoarse, as if he already knows, and I study him, eyes narrowed for a moment. But he actually looks so done in that it might be worth my being nice to gain his gratitude for _not_ forcing this on him. He's obviously suffering, obviously blaming himself for forcing me to hurt Jack… I don't really need to push the lesson any further.

I smile magnanimously. "Very well," I say gently. "I won't make you watch it."

"Thank you," he whispers, and he really does seem to mean it.

I move forward to crouch before him, gazing up into that ancient, sorrowful face. "Just remember, though," I tell him, the gentle tone belying the very definite threat in my words. "Every time you keep things from me, every time you deny me my right to information, every time you _defy_ me, it gets worse for the dashing Captain."

Well, if there _is_ anything that's worse than being cut up into tiny pieces.

I lift an eyebrow, smirking. "Is that understood, Doctor?"

His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. "Yes, Master."

I beam, and spring to my feet, clapping my hands. "Excellent! It's always nice when we understand each other."

* * *

It's three days before Jack comes round, which is about what I'm expecting after the energy drain _and_ having to pull himself literally back together. It should be less the next time I drain him, if I just shoot him. Or perhaps he'll recharge more quickly if I don't kill him? Hard to tell without actually trying it. Good thing I've got plenty of time for trial and error, then.

I don't move him, or have his room cleaned. I let him wake on his own in the midst of all that blood, three days old and dried out and _smelly_. And then I make him clean it all up.

Oh, it's _good_ to be the Master.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are love; con-crit is even better! :-)


	15. Part 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Master does some scheming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! This chapter has been 11 years and 3 months in the making. Probably a record of some kind! I started it right after posting Part 12, on 1 November 2008, but was never quite satisfied, and then it got well and truly Jossed by _The End of Time_ and I had to work out how to make it work in light of that. But now it's done, and so here, finally, is the penultimate chapter to this 12½ year epic story!
> 
> Huge thanks to [Karios](/users/karios/) for the quick beta and giving me the confidence to post this at last!
> 
> Thanks also to my flist on LJ way back in November 2008 who helped me come up with a name for the Master's oh-so-clever device, although whoever it was who suggested the name I eventually used has apparently since deleted their LJ account, so I have no idea who it actually was.

"Ah, if it isn't my favouritest visitor! How're you doing today, Master? Or tonight? Is it night? It's a little hard to keep track of the time down here."

I lift an eyebrow and observe the scene before me with intense satisfaction. Jack Harkness, chained between two pillars in the engine room of the Valiant, in a nice, strenuous position. He can't put much weight on his chains without putting nasty strain on his shoulders, so he's forced to stand upright. And he looks so lovely chained – all that physical power contained and harnessed by two small rings of metal. Makes me feel all powerful.

Which I am, of course, but I do love to _feel_ it.

"Oh, I'm doing very well, Jack," I say smoothly, sauntering close and palming his cheek. The muscles of his jaw tense against my skin, but he doesn't try to break away. If anything, he appears to enjoy the coolness of my hand. It is trifle hot down here, after all. He's sweating profusely, flesh glistening in the dim light.

"And how are _you_?" I ask, with mock concern, head on one side, eyes big and sorrowful. "Little bit hot, aren't you, poor thing!"

"I am _fine_," he grates out, pulling back from my hand to stare fiercely at me.

I laugh. "Good to hear, Jack," I purr. "Ready to give a little more, then? Ready to feed my paradox?"

That gets me a delightful glare full of hatred. He loathes the fact that I don't need to ask any more, don't need to beg or cajole or bargain with him. It took a few months to get it all perfected, but now? All I have to do is flip a switch on the wall and _presto_ – the Vitality Transference Device zips into action. The current flows up the chains and into the cuffs around Jack's wrists, blue sparks licking the metal, and Jack convulses, going stiff as the VTD clamps down on his flesh and begins to – well – drain the life out of him.

It's something I'm never going to get tired of watching, even though I've been doing this for weeks now. Seeing the evidence that I've been able to create something strong enough to force the very life out of someone – especially someone whose lifeforce is as strong as Jack Harkness' – oh, it's wonderful!

I leave it on until Jack's dead, sagging limply from his chains. Then I leave him to hang there until he wakes to the fun of dislocated shoulders for the umpteenth time. Another thing I still haven't got tired of!

Outside the engine room, there are Toclafane buzzing up and down the corridor. "Master! It's the Mister Master!" they say as they swarm around me.

I frown. "What's wrong, my children?"

"It's the human child, Master!"

"The one known as Martha Jones."

"The human slaves are talking about her."

Drums thud apprehensively in my head. "What are they saying?" I ask, starting off again briskly towards the lift. 

"They're saying she's in Japan, Master."

"_Japan_? What the hell is she doing there?"

"We don't know, Master!"

"We've _tried_ to find out more, but it's hard when we can't actually see her ourselves."

Awww, they sound really worried about me. They're so sweet, my children.

"I know," I say, trying to soothe them, though I'm horribly frustrated by that too. Damn the Doctor and his cobbled-together perception filter! Such a simple thing but look at the trouble it's caused me! I look round at the Toclafane as they follow me into the lift. "It's all right, my children. I know you're doing your best."

"The only thing we can do is listen to the humans who mention her name," one of them agrees mournfully.

"There are lots of humans mentioning her name," another adds, in a more hopeful tone.

"Yes, lots and lots."

I frown. "Where?"

"Everywhere. All over the world!"

"All over the _world?_" That really doesn't sound good. What has she been _doing?_ Trekking her way across the landmasses of this godforsaken planet, _talking_ to people? "What are the humans saying about her?"

A beat. "They are very cryptic, Master. All we know is that her name gives them hope."

"But you don't know why."

"No, Master."

Well. There's one person on board the Valiant who might know. The Doctor.

With a burst of adrenaline, I step out of the lift and swiftly cover the last few yards to the bridge. I burst in, and pause a moment to take in the sight of Lucy crouching in front of the Doctor's tent, talking to him quietly. That takes me rather by surprise, but I don't have time to worry about it right now. I stride across the room and pull her urgently out of the way with a quick, sardonic, "Excuse me, my darling," and then haul the Doctor out of his tent by his collar, shoving him backwards into his wheelchair. "Tell me what she's up to," I demand, teeth gritted, fingers clenching tight on his collar.

He gasps at the manhandling, knobbly hands gripping the arms of the chair in shock. "What?" he rasps, blinking up at me before his gaze flickers across to Lucy, who's watching nearby, wide-eyed but mercifully silent. After a moment, I realise the Doctor thinks the 'she' in my question is Lucy. As if Lucy would ever be up to anything against me!

"What's the Jones girl up to?" I clarify roughly, giving him a little shake and then letting go so I can stand back and watch him properly.

"_Martha?_" He stares at me. "I don't – " he starts.

"Yes you do." I glare down at him. "You must know. She was your companion. You _know_ her! What would she do? Stuck down there on the earth, without guidance, without _friends_. What would she _do?_"

"I don't know," he repeats stubbornly, and he's obviously lying because, all right, he's always been blind about his companions, but he must know _something_. He must have _some_ idea!

"Oh, come on, Doctor…" I say impatiently, and he shakes his head, his eyes wide and innocent.

"I don't even know where she is," he says desperately. "How could I possibly know what she's _doing?_"

Hmm. Perhaps he does have a point. He's not exactly privy to anything up here except what I _let_ him hear about. And perhaps he really is that unobservant regarding his companions. He doesn't, after all, seem to have got anywhere near as close to Martha Jones as he did to her predecessor, Saint Rose Tyler!

I straighten, folding my arms. "All right, then. New tack. If I can't find out what she's up to, I'll just have to stop her before she can finish it, whatever it is. I know where she is. I don't need to find her precisely when I can destroy an entire _country._"

The Doctor blanches, and I grin, leaning in to grasp his face between my two hands and plant a big sloppy kiss on his wrinkled lips. "Thank you, Doctor!" I say magnanimously, even though he hasn't really helped at all – that's just how generous I am. Sharing the love. I laugh as he immediately brings up a gnarled old hand to wipe the taste of me off his lips (how things have changed, in just a few short months!) and I swing away, gesturing the Toclafane after me as I stalk out, considering how to punish Japan for helping Martha, and how to make sure she's out of my way once and for all.

I think I'll burn it. Oooh, yes – pretty, pretty flames, all over Japan. No way she can escape that, and even if she does, I'll have made my point. She clearly thinks Jack is worth sacrificing to save the world (even if she somehow missed my broadcast threatening him, _someone_ down there must have told her about it), but I'm sure she'll think twice when I punish an entire _country_ for her sins.

Oh! And I'll make the Doctor watch. Make him watch me doing to his adopted world just a small part of what he did to Gallifrey. That ought to get a really good reaction out of him – shock him out of his lethargy.

I think I'll make Martha's family watch too. It's probably time to get them out of their cell again too. Their reaction should be fun to watch, and seeing them should help remind the Doctor exactly who this is all about. Also… I've lost a couple of serving staff lately (_so_ frustrating when one has to start killing off the servants to make the rest behave), and Francine and Tish did look so cute in waitresses' outfits at Christmas. Clive can go and help out below decks too. Yes, why not make use of them? Make them work for their living.

Or for their lives.

* * *

Back in our quarters, Lucy stares at me, pale and tense. "Harry, what do you think the Jones girl is really up to?" she gasps, hands reaching out to grip mine tightly. "Harry, do you think she could actually _hurt_ you?"

"Don't worry, we're not going to give her a chance to complete whatever it is she's come up with." I squeeze her cold little hands comfortingly. "With any luck, I'll get rid of her before it even becomes a problem. But even if she does manage to escape… Well. There's only one of her, all alone down there. What could she possibly do? Don't you worry your pretty little head about it, my darling."

She gazes up at me for a moment longer, then bites her lip and nods. I smile and hold out my arms and she comes to me as she always has done, trusting me to look after us both. I wrap my arms around her slender body and hold her close, and murmur against her hair, "Everything's going to be all right. If it comes down to it, I've still got a back-up plan."

Not that I've told Lucy what my back-up plan _is_, because I've always found it safest to keep such things to myself, just in case. On the other hand, I do have a plan for her too.

"Speaking of plans, there is something you could do for me," I whisper, and she pulls back so she can see me, wide eyes on my face.

"What is it, Harry?"

I think back to the sight of her crouching there talking to the Doctor when I entered the Bridge. "You were chatting with the Doctor earlier, weren't you? So why don't you start to spend a little more time with him? Try to find out if he knows anything more than he's letting on about what Martha Jones is up to." I pause, and grin down at her. "It might go more smoothly if we start acting a bit. We could pretend that there's a rift developing between us. That ought to win you some sympathy from the Doctor – and perhaps even from the gallant Captain too."

"Oh, I think we can manage that," she says, with a sly smile, tilting backwards to see my face. "It'll be fun, won't it, dear? Deceiving them all, making them feel _sorry_ for me?"

"It will be tremendous fun," I agree, arms tightening around her ribs so that she draws in a sharp breath. "How would you like to be beaten occasionally – in the name of deception?"

She gazes up at me, eyes gone dark with arousal. "Oh, Harry! I shall _love_ it."

Oh, my Lucy. My wonderful, wonderful Lucy. I laugh, and use my hold on her to lift her up and spin her round. I am _so_ lucky to have her!

* * *

I take them all up on deck to watch Japan burning: Lucy, the Doctor, all three Joneses, and my four favoured Toclafane hovering above, cooing with excitement. I even let Jack out of his chains for an hour or so and have him brought up to join us, still filthy, sweaty and stinking from the heat of the engine room. I've had them cuff his hands behind him, and I revel in the tightness of his jaw as he tries to contain the pain the change of position is causing his shoulders. He hasn't been out of that engine room in _weeks_.

The Doctor looks frankly horrified at how Jack looks. Good reaction, that. It's so hard to get much out of him these days. Perhaps I should have stuck Jack in front of him before, because the pain I'm causing them both by putting them together here seems to be a lot more than the pain I caused by keeping them apart. I chuckle, and slap the Doctor on the shoulder before wheeling him close to the edge so he can see down through the railing. "There you go, Gramps," I say fondly. "Best view in the house."

He's not looking at the view, though. He's peering round awkwardly to try and see Jack. "Jack, are you all right?" he asks, and I sigh. Okay, it's fun seeing him looking so distressed about anything, but I want his attention on _me_ right now. On _me_ and the country I'm about to burn to the ground.

Fortunately, Jack's stoic enough not to let the Doctor go down the road of angst and recriminations. "I'm just dandy," he grinds out and walks to the railings, deliberately placing himself a little way away from the core group of myself, Lucy and the Doctor. His guards follow him and take up position just behind him. I hope they're ready to grab him if he tries anything.

"Not too close to the edge, Captain," I command, and Jack snorts and turns his head to laugh at me.

"Don't worry. I'm not desperate enough to throw myself over the side," he scoffs.

"Good," I say dryly. "Because I don't really want to have to waste time dredging up your remains from the bottom of the Pacific Ocean."

"Awww, you mean you _would_? Why Master, I didn't know you cared!"

"I would, yes," I say tightly. "You don't get away from me that easily, Captain. What's mine stays mine."

"I was never yours."

No, though I'd thought he was at the time. I fold my arms and look at him. "You are mine to do what I will with. Your life is mine, Jack." I sneer at him. "Especially as it's something I can take from you again and again."

"That doesn't make it yours."

"Oh, I think it does, Captain." It makes me feel sick seeing him standing there looking so bloody _vital_ despite all the energy I've taken from him, over and over again. "I think I might have to take steps to convince you of that later."

"You can try," he says mildly, but there's a lovely little muscle twitching in his jaw that betrays his calm exterior.

"Oh, and I _will_!" I tell him with certainty, satisfied that I've got through to him, even if he won't admit it. Then I turn back to everyone else, clapping my hands and rubbing them together enthusiastically. "Right then! Let's burn Japan!"

There's a general increase in the tension of the little group gathered on the deck, and I laugh out loud. "Watch, people!" I command, thoroughly enjoying the Doctor and Jack's taut jaws, Lucy's pale excitement and the Joneses' sickened faces. Then I gaze up at my shiny silver friends as I take out my screwdriver. "Enjoy the show, my children!" And I press the button that will send a hundred incendiary bombs down to locations all across the islands of Japan.

I hear the spectators around me gasp as the rockets whiz out from the Valiant and hurtle down to the land below. I watch them go, the sight stirring up the drums in my head until they're pounding, loud and fast, waiting for that perfect moment when the missiles impact with the Earth. When it comes – a massive burst of noise and light on the surface of the planet – I find myself flinching along with everyone else, and realise my fists are clenched so tightly my fingernails are digging into my palms. It really is quite a spectacle.

I glance round, wanting to share this moment with Lucy. She looks unbelievably pale and beautiful, a red, white and gold goddess. To my surprise, a tear wells up in her eye and runs down her cheek. The sight must be completely overwhelming her. Well, she _is_ only human, after all. I slide an arm around her waist and she stiffens for a moment before melting against me. "Oh, Harry," she whispers brokenly.

A movement from Jack catches my eye: he's turned away from the view and is watching me and Lucy with a look that's hard to define. I try for a moment, but I can't really tell what he's thinking. So I just lift an eyebrow at him. "Eyes front, Captain."

He glares at me, but turns back again after a moment, and I glance down at the Doctor instead. The Doctor's crying, quiet and self-contained, just silent tears running down his cheeks and pooling in his wrinkles. Very satisfying.

The only thing that mars the moment is that we can't hear the screams, see the people running about in panic. Not yet, anyway. The Toclafane are recording it all for me, though. I've got Toclafane positioned all around Japan to prevent any escape attempts. I'm not going to let _anyone_ get out. I want them all to _burn._

Perhaps later I'll have the pictures taken by the Toclafane put together into a little video, something set to an appropriate song, for distribution to the rest of the world. Let them learn by example. Now, what could I use? _Disco Inferno_ comes to mind. I smile at the idea of pictures of lovely flames flaring up to the chorus of _burn, baby, burn_. Yes, I think that'll do nicely.

* * *

Afterwards, at dinner, Lucy seems strangely subdued. "Everything all right?" I ask her casually, when we've almost finished the excellent steaks Francine and Tish have grudgingly served us and Lucy's barely spoken a word.

"Hmm?" she murmurs absently, lifting blank eyes from her plate to my face.

I peer across the table at her, feeling my brow draw down into a frown. Now that I come to actually pay attention to her, I realise she looks a bit peaky. "What's the matter?" I ask her again.

"Daddy used to have a house in Japan," she says faintly.

Oh.

"Mummy and I used to go out there with him sometimes in the holidays," she continues dreamily. "It was nice there. I had a nanny, Yuna. I always wondered what happened to her."

Possibly, I ought to have known about that. Not that it would have made any difference to Japan's fate, but at least I wouldn't have expected Lucy to enjoy watching it burn.

"That country has been gone for a long time," I tell her gently, patting her little hand lightly. "The country I burned is the country that was helping Martha Jones. They had to be punished. She had to be destroyed."

"Of course, Harry," she says weakly. "God forbid that anyone try to thwart you."

"God has nothing to do with it," I smirk. "_I_ forbid it."

Lucy smiles, but I determine to keep a firm eye on her from now on. I don't want her weakening on me now, not when we've come so far. I need my Lucy with me, my pale, beautiful queen at my side as I strike out against the universe!

* * *

After dinner, I pop down to the engine room to teach a lesson to the noble Captain. He's chained up again as if he'd never left, only angrier. He didn't like what I did to Japan either.

I lean close – too close for comfort, really, because he _stinks_; I should have had him washed – and grin at him. "Now, let's see just who your life belongs to!" I command, as I flick the switch to start the Vitality Transference Device going. There's delicious hatred in Jack's eyes as he stares at me, waiting to find out just where I'm going with this. He must know I plan to make this different to all the other times I've drained him. I give him a devilish grin as I wait impatiently for the machine to get going and then watch him tense as it starts once more to pull the energy out of him.

This time, I wait until the last possible moment before he'll be too weak to survive (takes quite a bit of doing, actually – very careful calculations and monitoring of the gauges) and then I turn off the VTD, so that Jack's teetering right on the edge of dying. Then I have a chair brought for me and I sit and watch him hang there – grey-skinned, blue-lipped, gasping for breath and in agony from the position of the chains – too weak to heal; too strong to die.

I _need_ this. As my empire grows and the first stage of my plan nears completion, I'm having to do so much running about to keep control that I need something simple like this – something I can control so easily – for relief. Something to quell the drums, to feed their constant clamour for violence and pain and _control_.

Of course, soon they'll get as much as much violence as they can handle. Just a couple more months, and then I can wage war against the _universe_.

* * *

It takes Jack seven hours to beg for me to take his life. And when he's finished panting out his anguished plea, I, his merciful God, generously grant his wish and take his life from him.

And then fifty minutes later the universe gives it back to him so that I can take it all over again.


	16. Part 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Launch Day does not go according to the Master's plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are, finally: the last chapter. It's been a hell of a long time coming, but I hope it's been worth it!
> 
> Beta'd by [Karios](/users/karios/)

Lucy and I start work on the Doctor a few days later with a staged fight in front of the Doctor. Lucy accuses me of ogling other women, and of deliberately picking pretty young things as members of my staff. Which I have, of course, as part of the deception, but I act suitably outraged at the suggestion, and give what I feel is a rather convincing performance of getting worked up and letting the drums send me out of control until I whack her across the face. She reacts beautifully, crying out and falling back, reaching out a pale, pathetic hand for support.

The Doctor _panics_. He’s out of his chair far more quickly than I've seen him move in months, grabbing Lucy’s hand and making sure she doesn’t fall over. Then he gets in front of her, putting himself between her and me, his hands held out as if to stop me getting to her. Bless him. He’s not exactly much of a threat with those feeble twigs of arms, but the distress on his face and the way he keeps repeating, "Stop it! Just stop it!" is really rather endearing. Especially after the things Lucy's done, to the world, to the Joneses, to Jack. It’s so sweet that even though he knows she’s an insane, cold-hearted bitch, he still cares about her, because she’s _human_. Or maybe it's because he never can let go of the hope that he'll be able to _save_ someone. After all, he hasn't given up on me yet, either.

After that, he really looks out for her. Taking her side when we (deliberately, of course) let our arguments spill onto the bridge. Telling her to come and see him if she needs someone to talk to. Huddling up with her talking for _ages_ like old friends – or perhaps like grandfather and granddaughter. She acts like she finds him sweet and endearing, and is always looking out for him too, getting him things when he can’t reach them, and bringing him tidbits of proper food – again, all completely at my bidding, of course.

The only thing that's missing so far is any actual _results_, but I'm sure they'll come eventually. Lucy is so very, very good at deception.

And in the meantime, just in case anything goes wrong – because it never, ever hurts to be prepared – I get busy in other areas, putting my back-up arrangements into action.

I commission a fantasy novelist to write a legend about me, for certain faithful servants to discover in the unfortunate case of my death. The novelist has the appropriate wildly extravagant language down perfectly and all I need to do is feed in the few actual facts he needs to include. (After which I kill him, because I don’t want anything getting out ahead of time, especially since I don’t intend any of this ever to be needed.)

I spend time studying my workforce on the Valiant and hand-pick the people I need to resurrect me if the worst happens. Obviously, it has to be people on the Valiant because if the paradox machine somehow fails, they’ll be the only people who remember me (which is a possibility almost too dreadful to contemplate, but I force myself to contemplate it because if it happens, I need to rectify it). After copious research, I decide on my chosen few and carefully implant in their minds a hidden need to search out the Books of Saxon should the worst come to the worst.

I’m confident it won’t, though. After all, who on earth could defeat me now?

In all honesty, the hardest part of it all is making sure I keep this whole thing from the Doctor. I don't _think_ he's actually been poking around in my head, especially since we stopped spending all that time being _physical_ with one another, but I need to make absolutely sure he doesn't get the slightest whiff of what I'm up to, or even that I'm up to anything at all.

So I keep copious notes of my plan and its progress in a private video journal (with an isomorphic lock for extra security), implant a trigger in my mind to remember it every time I start thinking that I really must get myself a back-up plan, and then after each and every time I speak to someone about it, or even _think_ about it, I erase the memory of it with one of those handy little Retcon pills that Jack developed for Torchwood.

No way the Doctor can find out about my plan if even _I_ don't know about it!

* * *

One month to go – one month before everything’s ready – and it feels like forever.

I’m not good at waiting. I _used_ to be, back before the Time War, back before the drums got so loud. I used to be able to sit and wait for the Doctor for _years_, working away behind the scenes to prepare a surprise for him. But not any more. The drums want _war_, and waiting for it is hard.

I need a distraction, something to quiet them down for a bit, and there’s an obvious choice. A very pretty and pleasing distraction that I haven’t used in that way for far too long.

Jack.

I have the guards release him from his chains in the engine room and take him back to the cell where he spent the first six months or so. They let him sleep, for a good twelve hours, and then they get him properly cleaned up for the first time in _ages_. When he’s ready I go down to him.

Entering his cell, it’s like stepping back in time to that first night. Gone is the filthy, stinking man who’s been dying for me on a regular basis and instead, I have the beautiful Captain, clean and naked and kneeling for me once more.

His head is down, but he looks up as I stroll in, a slightly bemused expression on his face.

I wander towards him, inhaling deeply, and smile beatifically when all I smell is soap – well, soap and the first faint hints of arousal. After so long without sex, without pleasure – hell, without any form of human contact – that’s not exactly surprising.

“Ah, that’s better, isn’t it, Jack? All clean and lovely again for me!”

He’s lifted his face to keep looking up at me as I came nearer, and now he quirks an eyebrow. “Didn’t really expect to be doing this again,” he remarks lightly.

“Aw, Jack, have you been missing me?” I ask, trailing a hand over his hair and down the side of his neck.

His other eyebrow goes up. “I’ve been seeing you just about every other day,” he says deprecatingly.

I dig my fingers into the soft, vulnerable flesh under his chin for that, enjoying the way he flinches away from it. “You know what I mean, Captain.”

Of course he does. He’s just being deliberately obtuse. The tremor that ran through him when I started to touch him, and the way he leans into my hand (apparently helpless to resist the desire for contact) as soon as I stop hurting him, tells a different story to the one coming from his lips.

He shrugs, trying to cover the neediness he knows is seeping through. “I’ve been missing _sex_. Or – you know – _anything_ that’s actually enjoyable.”

“Like touch,” I say softly, stroking his cheek with my thumb. He tenses for a moment, and then lets out a little sigh, eyes fluttering closed, dark lashes spread on his cheeks. Beautiful.

“Yeah,” he admits quietly.

Because the way I’ve had him chained, he really hasn’t been able to touch _anything_. The hardness of the gratings beneath his feet, the metal cuffs around his wrists… that’s about all he’s been able to feel. Which is an incredible amount of sensory deprivation, really, for a man who values physical contact as strongly as Jack does.

And yes, of course that's deliberate. I could, after all, have built my Vitality Transference Device as a bed or a chair, something that would enclose him, something he could rest on or in, but chaining him like that is oh, so much more fun!

“So, what shall I do with you today, Jack?” I ask, stroking my hand down his neck and over that broad shoulder.

He shivers lightly, muscles rippling beneath my hand. “Are you actually asking, or is that rhetorical?” he asks flippantly, and I deliberately rake my nails across his shoulder in response.

Predictably, he just draws in a sharp breath and arches into the pain.

I grin and narrow my eyes, studying him. “Why? Is there anything you’d particularly like today, Jack?”

I can’t help being a little curious. He still fascinates me, the way his mind works, the things he values, subtly different from anyone else I've ever known.

He looks up at me, his face open. “I’d like to be touched,” he admits honestly. “And I’d like to come. Apart from that, I’m really not too bothered.”

Well well well.

“And what would you be prepared to offer me in return for those requests?” I purr, sliding my hand idly up through his hair again before letting him go to think about that. It’s always intriguing to see what he’ll come up with.

He doesn’t say anything crass like ‘Whatever you want, Master’ but instead takes a moment to think about it. There’s nothing obvious _to_ offer, after all, because he’s basically at my mercy anyway. I can do whatever I like to him and he can’t stop me. The only thing I can think of that he _can_ offer me is his willingness. That’s the only thing I can’t take by force.

When he finally speaks, it’s with a faint air of resignation but also with a definite spike in his arousal. “I offer you my reactions, Master,” he says, looking up to meet my eyes with what appears to be only a bit of trepidation. “I promise to react freely and fully, show you exactly what you’re doing to me, good or bad.”

I have to admit it’s a good offer. It’s something I’ve demanded from him before, but it’s still something he can choose to give me – or choose to give me more of.

“Very nice, Jack,” I croon, smiling, stroking his face again, but the other side, this time, dragging my knuckles down his cheek. His mouth opens, just a little, his breath hitching, and I smile, moving in just a little closer. “How about you start by reminding me what you can do with that lovely mouth of yours, hmm?”

He sucks in a breath, his pupils dilating as he gazes at my crotch, only inches from his face now. “Would you like me to use my hands, Master?”

I consider that for a moment. There’s something undeniably erotic about having someone undo your flies with their teeth, but I’m not feeling particularly patient. So I nod. “Yes. Hands to begin with, Captain, and then behind you again once we get started.”

"Yes, Master," he murmurs, his fingers already working on the button of my trousers. He doesn't waste time, just gets the zip down with the efficiency of lots of practice and gently frees my cock from my underwear. His hand closes around the shaft to hold it still while he lowers his head towards it and I gasp softly at the sheer heat of him, pulsing through me, waking the drums which rise to join the dance of his tongue over the head of my cock.

After a moment, the comparative coolness around my shaft alerts me to the fact that he's removed his hand and I look down in time to watch him position his hands behind his back again. What a good boy – and what a lovely sight! His shoulders are pulled back, simultaneously showing off his chest and making him look vulnerable as he kneels up and leans forward slightly, already trying to take more of me into his mouth. Beautiful.

I close my own hand around my erection, holding it steady for him, and let my other hand settle in his hair, loving the tiny shiver that gets me. He really is perfect. After a minute or too, I take half a step forward to change the angle, so that I'm standing over him, forcing him back down onto his heels, driving my cock down into that agile throat. He holds himself open for me, taking me in, letting me fuck his throat as the drums pound through me.

I don’t let them take me too far, though. Satisfying as it would be to let myself come down that gloriously hot throat, I made a promise to touch him and make him come and I'm determined to keep that promise. After a few minutes, I force myself to pull out and take a step back. Jack stays right where he is for a long moment, wet red lips parted wide as he pants for air, and his eyes when he opens them are dark with arousal. His cock is dark too, full and hard and bobbing in his lap.

I do so love the fact that even now, after all I've done to him and those he cares about, he'll still get hard for me.

I smile down at him, almost gently. "I assume you've prepared yourself for me, Captain?"

Well, it's been a while. He _might_ have forgotten the rules.

A faint shiver goes through him, and he swallows, Adam's apple moving in that long, pale throat. "Yes, Master," he whispers, voice hoarse from my cock.

"Good." I take a moment to consider how I want to fuck him, and then smile beatifically as the answer comes to me. "Let's take this right back to the beginning, then, Captain." I flick my fingers towards the wall bars I had him hang onto that very first time I fucked him. There's something that appeals to me greatly about the symmetry of doing this the last time in the same way as I did the first time. "Find a bar that's the right height to hang onto and spread your legs."

* * *

The countdown begins. I have my shipyards working twenty-four hours a day, pumping out rockets, and my fusion mills pumping out the energy to power them. The human race are my slaves, working together to build my new Time Lord empire. All my separate little plans coming together, like the whirring cogs of some divine machine.

I suppose that makes me a divinity.

The weapons fleets are almost ready. Whole continents packed with rockets to conquer the stars, and my army of Toclafane to support and guide them.

The battle plans are drawn up and the Toclafane fully briefed. Each of my blood-thirsty little children knows what his role will be come the start of the war.

The Doctor, if not actually putting out, is at least not getting in the way of anything.

Captain Jack is back in the engine room, pumping out his own brand of power whenever I need it.

And as for Martha Jones – well, nothing has been heard of her since I burned Japan. She's either dead or in hiding, I don’t care which. She’s being quiet and not giving me anything to worry about, and that’s all I need from her.

Until one afternoon, with less than a week to go, my metal children come and find me on the upper deck of the bridge, making some adjustments to the calibrations.

"Master! Master!"

"Not now," I tell them without looking round. I need all my concentration for this.

"But Master, we have news. From the ground!"

"The human child, Master. Martha Jones."

I freeze. Let out a slow breath. "Yes?"

"She's alive."

Damn, damn, damn. I turn slowly, feeling my blood run cold. It's nothing, of course. She can't _do_ anything, there's not a single spanner she can throw in the works of my intricate machine. And yet…

"Are you sure?" I ask them, my lips stiff and tight.

They actually back up a foot or two. They have no need to fear me, but they obviously see something in my face that causes them to retreat, just a little.

"Yes, Master."

"We're sorry, Master."

"We are hearing stories again. The humans are whispering about her, that she's the only person to have escaped the pretty, pretty fires we lit all over those islands where she was hiding."

Typical. One single person to escape the burning of Japan, and it had to be Martha bloody Jones.

I cast a sharp glance down at the Doctor in his wheelchair, but he's doing his usual thing of staring blankly out of the window. It's not clear if he's even listening. I wonder if there's any point in trying to ask him about it. I wonder, again, what the hell Martha is up to. What the Doctor said to her, in those few moments he had before she teleported away down to the surface.

Hang on. She teleported. Using Jack's wrist strap. The wrist computer of a Time Agent, and the head of Torchwood Three, who must have had access over the years to all _kinds_ of information on Time Lords , and every possible incentive to collate it.

Why on earth didn't I think of that before? If Martha Jones has managed to get her hands on all that information…

I look back at the hovering Toclafane, and something makes them back off a few inches more. "Get back down there," I command them tightly. "Follow the stories. Follow her trail. _Find_ her."

I'm turning back to my interrupted work on the circuits when I hear the Doctor speak from down below, voice dry and gravelly.

"They won't find her, you know."

Oh, fuck him. I _really_ don't need him taunting me right now, not when I've got so much at stake.

I sneer and leap down the stairs, swiftly enough that he actually recoils slightly as I lean over him. "How much do you want to bet on that, Gramps?"

He purses his lips and stares back at me, and oh, but it's nice to have actually got a reaction from him, even a little one. "I'm betting quite a lot on it," he says darkly, and I laugh. Even to my ears it sounds a little wild.

"Yeah, betting just about the whole human race, eh? Or at least, the twenty-first century segment of it." Because the Toclafane are human too. Oh, so very human. I grin a little, tight and fierce. "Oh, how disappointed in you they must all be, Doctor. All these months, suffering and dying to build my new empire – just because _you_ couldn't face standing up to me and stopping me. Just… sitting there in that chair, watching me use them for my own ends." I shake my head mockingly. "Oh Doctor. _What_ a disappointment."

For a moment there I think I see something shift in his eyes and adrenaline kicks through me as I wonder if he's actually going to find the guts to say something, to _do_ something.

But then his gaze drops from mine, as it always does, and he flaps a hand up towards the instrument panels I was working on. "You'd better get back to work," he says flatly. "Don't want those readings to time out, do you?"

Damn him. I growl at him, and shove his wheelchair away, sending it banging into the table. "_Fine!_" I snarl, and stalk away back up the stairs.

The readings have timed out and I have to start all over again. _Damn_ him.

* * *

Two days to go, and there's no sign of Martha, of course. Not a damn thing. Her trail has gone cold again. There's nothing I can do but wait. And hope.

I spend my time overseeing the final manoeuvres, making sure everything is perfectly in place, ready to go when I give the word.

I can't help just a _few_ nerves fluttering in my stomach as the sun sets on the last day but one before I start to conquer the universe. Perhaps I need something to settle them. Perhaps a little… violence.

I think perhaps a little visit to Captain Jack.

After all, a ritual sacrifice on the eve of war _is_ something of a tradition in most cultures of the universe. And I'm going to need the Captain in tip-top condition when the war begins. It'll be more important than ever that the paradox doesn't fail then, so I need him ready to top-up the power at a moment's notice. I'm not going to be able to enjoy any more slow, lingering deaths from him for a while.

Not that that's a huge problem as I'm sure there'll be _plenty_ of other bloodshed going on to keep me amused. But it does mean I should make sure to savour this death even more than others.

Hmm. What can I do to him? The drums surge as I mull over the possibilities.

I'm pretty sure some of those human rituals involve cutting out the heart of a great warrior, or bleeding him, or something to do with his blood, to bring good luck to a campaign. And you don't get much more of a hero than Jack. Who knows, maybe killing him will bring me good luck?

I think I’ll go with bleeding him. I rather fancy the idea of lots of blood today.

I enter the engine room and round the corner towards where Jack’s held – and pause, completely taken aback at the sight of Lucy. She’s on the near side of the mesh gate, fingers curled through the holes, staring vacantly at Jack. And Jack's watching her right back, with a rather intense expression that I really don't like at all. Neither of them look round at the sound of my footsteps as I start walking again, coming up beside Lucy and wrapping a caring arm around her slim waist.

“What are you doing here, darling?” I ask her softly, feeling her startle for half a second at the contact before she relaxes in against me.

"I came to see the VTD," she says vacantly. "You've told me so much about it, I wanted to see it for myself."

"It's not switched on at the moment," I remind her gently, and after a moment she gives a little embarrassed giggle.

"Of course, silly me! Oh, Harry, I'm useless without you, aren't I?"

"Of course not, darling," I say tenderly, eyes on the Captain, watching him for any flicker of intention as he watches us. Any tiny indication that there might have been more going on here than what Lucy says.

I squeeze her waist a bit. "Would you like to watch me kill him, one last time?" I murmur against her hair. "Bleed the handsome hero to bring us luck?"

It seems to me there's a teeny-tiny moment of hesitation before she answers, but I'm probably just imagining it. Once she does answer she certainly sounds convincing. "Oh yes, Harry, I'd love it! What are you going to do?"

Jack, meanwhile, has tensed up, but not an awful lot. He is, after all, extremely well aware by now that a visit from me means either pain or death or both. I grin at him as I open the gate so I can actually approach him, studying him closely. It's several weeks since I let him get clean for me (and again after I'd come inside him – see how generous I am?) and he's filthy again, clothes and skin and hair coated with the grime that's thick in the air down here. _Everything_ here smells of engine oil, and he's no exception.

He's also starting to look just the faintest bit wild about the eyes. There's a real hint that he may, finally, be starting to crack, just a little. After all, he hasn't slept properly in months. (All right, there was that day I let him down for sex, but that was weeks ago.) He's _died_, of course, but I don't think real sleep is possible, strung up like that, having to hold yourself up to avoid dislocating your shoulders. I should think the best he's managed are periods of agonised unconsciousness.

I’m really rather proud of that. Restraint that’s both functional _and_ torturous. Very economical.

I lean in close to his ear and ask him in a low voice, “Do you know what day it is, Captain?”

His chin goes up. "Two days to launch, isn't it?"

I step back and lift my eyebrows, giving him a hard look. "Isn't it, _what?_"

He grins, all teeth. Oh yeah, definitely starting to lose it. "Isn't it, _Master_," he says, his tone incredibly patient, as if he's humouring a petulant child.

The drums thunder in my head. "Oh, Captain," I say softly, pulling out my screwdriver and setting it to laser-cutter as I did once before with him. "You really, really should have learned by now to mind your manners."

And then Lucy's there between us. "Darling," she says, and I look down at her impatiently, annoyed at her getting – literally – between me and my fun. The drums batter at the inside of my skull.

"Darling, on second thoughts, don't you think you should leave him alive?" She gazes up at me, all slinky, sophisticated temptation, in her red dress, with her golden hair cascading over her shoulder. "Or at least make it a quick death? You really don't know how long you'll have before you might need him to feed the paradox machine. It could be any moment. The Doctor said the whole thing's balanced on a knife's edge just now." She gives a slightly embarrassed little laugh. "I mean, I can't pretend to understand any of what he says about that, but I just…" She glances behind her to the gallant Captain, who's watching with interest. "Shouldn't you make sure he's got life force to give, in case you need it?"

Damn it. She does have something of a point there. Quite a good point, actually.

I tilt my head and lift an eyebrow at Captain Jack, snarling a little. "Looks like it's your lucky day, Captain. Saved by the angel Lucy."

Then I grin, nastily. "It doesn't mean you're not going to die, though!"

I raise my screwdriver again, flicking the switch to the default setting – back to the beginning with deaths, as well as sex, for Jack. I do like my symmetry. But this time I ramp up the power, to well over double what I normally use.

Captain Jack is going to _fry_.

* * *

One day to go. Tomorrow, I take over the universe.

_Today_, I get the news that Martha is back on home soil. I try to tackle the Doctor about it, again, and _still_ get absolutely nothing out of him. Neither does Lucy, when I ask her to try later.

That afternoon, the Doctor and his cronies make a ridiculously feeble last-ditch attempt to thwart me. The Doctor going for my screwdriver is so laughably pathetic, and as for Captain Jack and his attempt to get free and, presumably, destroy the paradox he's been so instrumental in keeping sustained… Well, really. All I can do is laugh.

Oh, and age up the Doctor some more, because I _can_, and because it's my last-ditch attempt at thwarting little Miss Jones.

Not that I'm worried about her, of course. But it _would_ be sensible to eliminate all distractions so I can focus on the things I _need_ to focus on.

Like waging war on the rest of the universe.

* * *

And then they find her. Putting together a _weapon_. A weapon which I hasten down to the earth's surface to find and destroy. I head back up to the Valiant for my day of triumph with the Jones girl finally in my power, glee thrumming through my veins and the drums pounding victoriously in my head.

_Nothing_ can stop me now.

* * *

…Launch Day really isn’t going as planned. This was supposed to be the greatest day of my life, and instead everything's falling apart around me, my plan toppling, crashing disastrously to the ground.

Martha Jones, kneeling at my feet and _laughing_ at me.

The whole thing with the gun in four parts being a joke, yet another distraction to keep me from the real plot.

The countdown, failing.

The Doctor, all glowy and floaty, rejuvenating before my eyes. Using the power of my own magnificent Archangel network against me.

And then _forgiving_ me. Chasing me down to the planet's surface, wrestling with me, cajoling me, forcing me back onto the bridge of the Valiant to face the music, gazing pityingly at me as Jack slaps handcuffs on me (oh, the irony), and then promising to… _keep_ me?

And then… A gunshot?

The bullet hits and I stagger backwards as pain blossoms through me, frantically scouring the little crowd of people to see which of them is holding the gun.

It's Lucy. _Lucy_. My dear, sweet, twisted, sadistic, crazy Lucy.

Memories flash brightly in my mind as I feel myself slowly collapse to the ground.

_...Jack at the Christmas party, escorting Lucy and telling her stories, and perhaps doing his job just a little too well..._

_...Rousing later that evening to find myself bound to a bed with no sign of the Doctor and no indication of how long he'd been gone..._

_...Lucy gradually spending more and more time with the Doctor, even before I asked her to..._

_...Lucy gazing at me with those sad, vacant eyes and murmuring, "Daddy had a house in Japan. We used to go out to visit him when I was little..."_

_...Coming down to kill Jack just two days ago and finding Lucy there, just staring at him..._

_...Lucy persuading me not to torture Jack one last time, but to give him a quicker, less painful death..._

Damn it.

I should have seen that coming. I really should have seen that coming.

Martha was right: the Doctor would never ask someone to kill. He looks just as shocked as I feel.

But Jack would have no such scruples. Jack's a soldier; killing is what he does. I watch the gentleness – approval, even – with which he takes the gun from her hand and feel sick to my stomach at the idea that he could convince her to betray me like this. All this time, Lucy's been playing me. They've _all_ been playing me, just waiting for the perfect time to intervene. I stare round at them all, cold realisation slipping through me.

Or maybe it's just the effect of the bullet.

At least I have my Doctor, skidding over to me, holding me at last, cradling me, _crying_ over me. It's some kind of victory, at least. Definitely a kind of victory.

And I've got my back-up plan. Which means that whatever he thinks, here and now, one day he’ll know I’ve won. My plan will come through for me.

My plan. My lovely plan. My Master Plan.

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly can't believe I actually got here. For over a decade, I thought I would never get the end of this serial posted, and it feels fantastic to have managed it, at last.
> 
> And if you've made it this far, I'd really love to hear what you thought of it! What you liked, what you think I could have done better, whether you think I managed the reveal at the end well enough, any typos I've missed (there's always at least one, beta or no beta!) - tell me everything! And thank you for sticking with me to the end!


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